


Never Looked Better

by por_queeee



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Aggression, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Original Character(s), Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Tales from the Borderlands, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 70,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3953485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was really kind of surprising how easy it was to escape the hell of Pandora just by saying 'hey, I’ve got our insane/dead CEO lodged in my fucking brain!  Wanna have a look?'"</p><p>Turns out that Jack's not so dead anymore.  Turns out that he has more than a passing interest in Rhys for some weird reason.</p><p> Slight AU of Tales from the Borderlands, and a WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despairing that there isn't more fic for these two, so I'm taking it upon myself to give writing them a try. This chapter is just the set-up, so the "Explicit" rating will be for later chapters.

The AI— Jack— whatever. That was Rhys’s key back to Hyperion, back to a world where everything wasn’t actively trying to murder his fucking face. A world where, sure, everyone was “fake”, but at least they weren’t a shirtless psycho coming at you with a massive Torgue shotgun. 

It was really kind of surprising how easy it was to escape the hell of Pandora just by saying “hey, I’ve got our insane/dead CEO lodged in my fucking brain! Wanna have a look?” After everything that happened down there, all the _shit_ his maneuver against Vasquez had put him through, he had somehow managed to convince the powers-that-be to let him and Vaughn back on Helios. Choosing to trust Handsome Jack’s advice wouldn’t have been the smartest bet in most people’s books, but it had worked.

And boy, was he regretting that now.

“Hold still,” mumbles one of the many lab-coat wearing people that surround him. This is Rhys’s welcome back of sorts, being strapped to a chair and gawked over by… What, doctors? Scientists? Some combination? The point is, though, that he can see tray after tray of sharp pointy objects, shelves of humming machinery. All clearly intended for him.

They’re adjusting the straps on his arms. He’s trying not to hyperventilate. (And doing a pretty piss-poor job.)

“I still don’t understand why it takes surgery to get him out?” He’s trying to be calm. He got through the surgery for his arm and ECHO eye just fine, didn’t he? There’s no reason he should be so nervous. 

Other than the fact that _that_ surgery had itself been very experimental and super fuckin’ dangerous. Other than the fact that he’s completely disposable once they get what they want out of him. 

The science-y people seem to be ignoring him. “I mean, I plugged him into my port basically, right? So can’t you just, uh… Download him or… Something?” His eyes shift between surgical instruments nervously. One of the lab-coats seems to be readying a needle.

The main one- Rhys is assuming it’s the main one based on the way she’s been bossing around the others- looks up from her datapad impatiently. “This _is_ the ‘or something.’” She says in clipped tones. “Retrieving data from your neural port should have been simple enough, but your hardware is damaged. We can’t repair it without taking it completely out. All of it.”

He opens his mouth to continue this line of questioning- mostly to get one more promise that they’re not going to just let him bleed out once Jack’s been extracted- when the devil himself flickers into view just behind Boss Lab-coat. Rhys’s mouth clamps shut almost painfully hard.

“Whoahoho, look at these toys!” Jack’s grin couldn’t be more wolf-like as he bends over the various cutting implements, thumbs hooked on his hips. He saunters around for a moment before his gaze finally falls on Rhys. “Hey cupcake, why so nervous? Aren’t you happy? You’ve got something important in your head for once, and I bet that’s a friggin first for you, right?” His tone shifts easily from mockingly saccharine to derisive.

Rhys stares silently up at Jack as one of the scientists tilts the chair back, lifts the leg-rest. It’s clear they’re getting ready for the main show. Somebody is hooking an IV up to his left arm, the human one, and he sucks back a yelp. He doesn’t have the energy to be offended by Jack, or even annoyed.

“Aww, Rhysie. You think they’re gonna kill you, huh? I mean, once they’ve got me, what good is the meat container I came packaged in, right?”

Rhys closes his eyes and swallows tightly. “Basically, yes. Thanks for the reminder.” They’ve done extensive tests on him while he has these little conversations with Jack, monitoring his vitals and hooking him up to fancy brain-wave machines, so it’s not like they’re going to be startled if he addresses thin air like this. It’s also not like he cares, not when being cut open and put back together is a more pressing concern.

That infamously smooth voice is getting closer, switching ears as if Jack’s circling him. “Well, it’s true that you’re pretty worthless. But bringin’ me home was the one good thing you’ve done in your pathetic little life, so good news! And I promised you I’d pay you back for it, didn’t I?” He refuses to open his eyes. The fact that it _sounds_ like Jack occupies actual 3D space really drives him nuts. He tries not to think about it too hard. 

Even through his lids Rhys can tell they’ve turned on some kind of spotlight now, aimed it right at his face. “You’re dead.” He mumbles dryly. 

“You keep” and now a hiss, closer “ _saying,_ that. But I’m Handsome Jack, and heroes don’t just die, kid.”

Rhys’s brow wrinkles. Don’t they though? And who in the hell would call Jack a hero, even Rhys who had striven so hard to emulate him? 

He hears the scrape of a scalpel against a tray and his heart does a little flip. 

“Seriously, all those New-U Stations around and you think they can’t figure out how to bring me back? You think they’re gonna leave me dead when half of you idiots worship me like a god?” 

Somebody presses a mask to his face, tells him to breathe. His fingers are locked to the arms of the chair so tight that it’s painful. The voices around him, the small clicks of people walking, all of it starts to go muffled. A bit more each time he takes a breath. His head’s fuzzy, blissfully fuzzy. 

The only clear thing now is Jack’s voice right by his head, so close that his lips must be all but touching, growling into his ear. “And I don’t just throw away things that are _mine_ before they’ve lost their value, sugar.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep, so yeah, another chapter already. Hope the characterization isn't too laughable
> 
> Anyways, things should be picking up next chapter, including the rating. So if you're here for that sweet, sweet NSFW... It'll be here in short order.

He doesn’t know where he is, and he can’t open his eyes. Eye? Eyes. One of them just feels so awful he’s not sure it’s _there_ anymore, like a supernova has been stuck in his fucking orbital socket. It takes him a few moments to realize that he’s screaming, because the pounding in his head does a hell of a job of drowning everything else out.

The fact that he can’t really move his limbs doesn’t bother him overly much, because his torso is thrashing around enough to make it feel like he’s in the middle of an earthquake. Is he doing that? Or is something else shaking him?

There’s a hand on him, and then a sting in his arm so minute compared to the explosion in his head that it barely registers.

* * *

 

The first time he’s _really_ awake in the sense of, like, being fully fucking _cognizant_ , he opens his eyes to find Handsome Jack staring straight at him.  
He’s still too doped up on pain meds to jump despite the terrifying look on the other man’s face, but he would if he could.

“G’morning sunshine” drawls the other man.

His eyelids flutter. He’s struggling to bring things into focus, both visually and mentally. He can remember pain, pain in his head where his eye and temple are. Had he just had the experimental surgery that he’d volunteered for? The ECHO eye, the cybernetics, the mechanical arm… That would make sense, that would explain the pain and the overly bright room-

“Hey, hey, look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” Fingers, snapping in front of Rhys’s face. His face scrunches up in confusion as much as it can with the medication. His thoughts are a jumble, all of his memories tangled together in some kind of knot. It’s like he _remembers_ things, just not chronologically, like he can’t place himself in his own life.

Something niggles at the back of his mind. If Jack is here then he must be on Pandora. That drive, the one he found on Nakoyama, it had made him see and hear some kind of artificial intelligence designed to mimic Jack. He remembers now, he remembers-

Now Jack whistles right in his face, sharp and piercing, like he’s calling a dog. Rhys winces. He doesn’t feel that harsh pain anymore, but there’s still this dull ache. At least things are coming into focus now, so he blinks a few more times, and finally everything looks right.

Except-

Except the fact that Handsome Jack isn’t tinted blue, isn’t slightly see-through, isn’t a _hologram_. Rhys’s head jerks back, pressing back into the pillows beneath him, as far away as he can get considering he can’t seem to move his arms or legs. His ECHO eye does a scan before he even consciously commands it to, the floating HUD that flickers into vision confirming that it’s a living, breathing, human in front of him. A 100% match for Handsome Jack.

“You! You’re—“

“Incredibly good looking? Yeah, kiddo, I know.” Jack snickers, finally moving his face away. Rhys is too terrified to move his neck, eyes just rolling in their sockets to follow Jack.

Jack tilts his head soberly now, seemingly in appraisal “Boy they really fucked you _up_ when they were trying to get to me, huh? You look like a skag’s favorite chew toy.”

“But you were just an AI” Rhys manages to choke out. “How—“

Jack’s lips twist up at the corners. “Wrong.”

“You _were_ , I downloaded you like a _program._ ” _More like a virus_ his mind flashes.

“Wwwwrrroooooonnnnnnnuuuuggggguhhhhh.” Jack stretches out the word ridiculously, leaning over the bed again, clamping a hand to a side-rail. The movement draws Rhys's eyes down and he realizes for the first time that he’s strapped down by his wrists and legs, soft white linens surrounding him. The rest of the room is sparse but clean looking, the familiar metal walling of Helios.

“Here’s the thing. Nakoyama? He was an idiot. A dangerous, dangerous idiot. But somehow he got something right for once, see?” Jack gestures loosely at himself with his other hand. “You don’t need specifics, but the guy made a copy of my, like, brain basically, saved the whole thing digitally.” Jack’s pushes off the bed, starts undoing the leather thong that holds down Rhys’s left wrist. For his part, Rhys is still too dumbfounded to move.

“Now, the whole digital model of me, the ‘hologram’ you could see cuz of your ECHO eye, the perfect reconstruction of my voice- who fucking _knows_ why he did that. The man was obsessed with me. I mean, who isn’t, right? I get why but, god, ew, if he was like jerkin’ it to his little computer simulation of me? Makes me want to cut off someone’s _hand._ ” Here he leans over to unbuckle Rhys’s right arm with a clink. Rhys flexes the fingers, grateful at least that everything seems to be in working order.

Jack moves down to the end of the bed, making quick work of Rhys’s leg restraints. He keeps brushing Rhys unnecessarily, probably just to scare him (which is working.) “And y’know, of course I have like a bazillion bodies back here on Helios. We’d been having trouble finding a fool-proof way to store my consciousness, so I guess I have to be grateful I have crazy stalkers to perfect that for me— which reminds me that I should have the whole team that worked on that project shoved out of an airlock, considering one guy did it on his own.”

Rhys swallows. Even though his limbs are free they feel as heavy as cinderblocks, so there’s no way he can run if Jack decides it would be fun to strangle him the way he tried to as a hologram. Through the numb pain in his head he’s hoping beyond hope that Jack stays distracted enough with all this rambling to not murder him.

“Annnyways.” Jack steps so quickly back to Rhys’s side that his stomach flips. “That’s where you come in champ. Carried me all the way back here, to my limitless resources and cryogenically frozen clone bodies. So they just pulled me out of _here_ ,” Jack taps sharply on Rhys’s neural port, and Rhys gasps with a shock of pain, “and put me back in _here_ ” he finishes, splaying his other hand on his own chest.

There’s a long silence. Jack seems to expect Rhys to say something.

“Um, that’s… Wow.” He manages timidly. Sure, on Pandora he’d started to get flippant with what he thought was an AI, but being at the mercy of the real thing… He was back to the basic petrification he felt the few handful of times he’d seen his idol in the office hallways.

“You see,” Jack says, clearly ignoring him, the hand that had carelessly tapped Rhys’s port moving to plant itself beside his neck on the pillow. Jack could definitely be considered to be looming over him at this point, face maybe a foot away. “I’m going to keep my promise to you kiddo. You’re gonna get that promotion I mentioned.”

“Thanks?” Rhys says tentatively, stuck staring at Jack’s green and blue eyes with his own mismatched gaze. He laughs nervously. “I kind of thought… I mean… I’m surprised you haven’t just killed me.”

Jack smirks, leaning ever so slightly closer. The lips of his mask move seamlessly when he speaks. It’s not the first time Rhys has wondered what’s under there. “Now why would I do that? I _own_ you Rhysie. Ever since I set foot in that skull of yours you were mine. Y’see, you’re going to be my personal assistant. You’re going to cater to my every _whim_ while I get this shit pile back on track.”

Okay… Okay, that’s a weird choice of phrasing, one that makes Rhys twitch slightly. But ignoring that for the moment, he flashes to the dozen or so stories he’s heard about Jack’s various PAs and their untimely deaths. He used to dream of working alongside Jack, but as his PA? Nuh-uh. He was stupid, but not that stupid.

Jack slaps his shoulder a few times roughly, straightening out. “I really did mean that comment about you looking like shit though. Half the reason I haven’t killed you is that you’re too damn pretty a toy, so those numbskulls better not have done any permanent damage. Can’t tell under the swelling, but if they did I will _eviscerate_ them.”

One more flash of a smile and Jack’s gone, striding briskly out the door. Rhys stares at the ceiling dumbly for a long, long time. Sure, he’s free of Pandora, but what does any of this mean? So he's basically Jack’s plaything now, probably alive only as long as he amuses him?

He is so fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I guess I lied about this being the chapter to earn the E rating? But I can now promise DEFINITIVELY that that will be next chapter. Couldn't resist just a bit more build-up here.
> 
> Hopefully the delay is made up for by the quick update and slightly longer chapter.

It’s Rhys’s first day back on the job and he’s terrified.

“You’ll be fine!” Reassures Vaughn, slapping him on the back as they maneuver the hallways of Helios. They pass like a billion conference rooms, coffee machines, douches in slick suits. “I mean, probably. Maybe? Just uh, stay away from any airlocks.”

Rhys glares down at his friend. “Yeah, really helpful Vaughn. Thanks.”

“I mean, it _is_ technically a promotion. He would have killed you by now if he wanted to, right?”

“Yeah, that might be comforting if it didn’t sound more like you’re trying to reassure _yourself_.”

“Well, I don’t want to get stuck paying all the rent when Jack decides to load you in a moonshot.”

It’s been several weeks since Rhys’s little surgery, long enough for all the bruising to heal, even if he’s still a little sore. And Jack had not been kidding about how bad he’d looked— the entirety of the left side of his face had been one swollen mass, black and purple and pretty damn gross. The people in lab coats that had visited him during his recovery had explained that it wasn’t just the surface hardware that had needed to come out, but all of the complex wiring and tech behind that as well. They had effectively re-done the entire implant operation he’d undergone several years before. But this time it had required them to first remove implants that had already started to bond with his nervous system (in very interesting ways, they assured him,) and that had apparently been a bitch for his body.

During his recuperation Jack hadn’t been back to visit him once. It had honestly made him hopeful that the whole PA thing had been a joke. But the first day he’d woken up looking more-or-less normal there had been an ECHO device waiting for him on the tray beside his bed, telling him he’d better have his ass to work on Monday.

So here he is. Everyone at Hyperion is freaking out over the return of Jack, productivity is apparently way-way up out of that desperate fear/worshipfulness the man tends to inspire, and not a single person seems aware that it’s _Rhys_ they have to thank for the return of their figurehead.

Vaughn clears his throat. “Listen, man. I know this was a big risk but, um, thanks for getting me my job back. That was… An adventure, but I’m not sure how much longer we could’ve made it down there.”

Rhys manages a smile, glancing over. “Yeah dude, no problem.” He wouldn’t have left Vaughn behind. There was no way.

“So… Think you’ll have a chance to get lunch with Yvette and me?” Vaughn ventures as they come to a stop in front of his department. Rhys still has a bit to go before he gets to (he resists a shudder,) _Jack’s_ office.

“I have no idea. But if I’m not dead or otherwise incapacitated by then, maybe.”

Vaughn opens his mouth like he’s about to issue one more piece of reassurance, but then there’s a deep yell from somewhere behind them in the mess of cubicles. _“Vaughn! You’re late, get in here!”_

Vaughn glares over his shoulder before turning back to Rhys. “Well, I’ll see you at home at least?”

Rhys lets out a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you at home.” They share a quick fist-bump before Vaughn turns to scurry through the maze of cubicles.

 

* * *

 

 

When he gets closer to Jack’s office— a wing that Rhys has never dreamed of having access to before— his nerves really start getting to him. He steps into the reception area uncertainly, looking around until his ECHO eye highlights a woman in a cream pants-suit sitting behind a large desk. He approaches her as calmly as he can.

She looks up from under sharp ebony bangs, flicking her eyes over him before returning them to a stack of papers. Clearly not impressed. “Judging by the arm, you must be Rhys.”

He nods his head, but duh, she’s not looking at him, so he clears his throat. “Yeah. I’m, um, Handsome Jack’s new—“

She points over her shoulder at a large metal door. “Through there. He’s expecting you.”

“Sure. Okay, thanks.”

He steps over to the door uncertainly; he can’t see a button to press to get it to slide open, and no keycard access slot. He stands in front of it, perplexed. Should he just knock, or? Before he can perform a scan some kind of retinal camera flashes into life, pinpointing his eye with a beam of red. The door slides open.

Jack is on the other side, his back to the door, staring out a large window into the glimmering expanse of stars beyond. The picture is regal somehow, almost looks like it could be one of Hyperion’s standard issue motivational posters if it weren’t for the fact that Rhys can’t think of ever seeing one that doesn’t showcase Jack’s face. He steps through the door and it whooshes shut behind him with a click of finality.

Jack doesn’t turn, just gestures vaguely behind him in the direction of a big black leather office chair that’s positioned by an enormous glass-topped chrome desk. “Have a seat, cupcake.”

Rhys swallows but obeys, striding across the large room. His skagskin boots click against what he thinks must be actual _marble_ , nothing he’s seen in the metal confines of Helios before. The rich black leather of the chair smells new as he sinks into it, possibly the only comfortable piece of office furniture he’s occupied in his pathetic life.

The seconds tick by as he sits there. Jack is just staring out the window quietly, and Rhys searches the set of the broad shoulders for some clue to Jack’s mood. As far as he knows, there are only a few possibilities: amusement, anger, determination, annoyance, or super-mega-homicide anger. He hopes that it’s not the latter.

The taller man finally whirls around and Rhys jolts ever so slightly in the chair, fingers flexing reflexively on the arm rests. Jack is looking down at him like a cat who’s caught a mouse by the tail, running a hand back through his grey streaked hair.

“So, first day back champ. Ya nervous? Excited?”

Rhys just nods. This whole thing seems surreal.

“Hey, guess they didn’t fuck up your face after all!” Jack says with glee, kneeling in front of the chair. Rhys resists the urge to roll the fuck away, channeling some good old fashioned Hyperion confidence.

A broad hand comes up, actually starts prodding at the flesh around his eye and neural port as Jack scrutinizes his face. “See, when I was in here” punctuated by a sharp tap to his port that sends a jolt up Rhys’s back, “I decided I liked that pretty face of yours. I mean, sure, you’re kinda dumb. And, like, a total wuss. But we all— well, _most_ of us have our flaws.” The implication being, obviously, that Jack has none.

Jack isn’t moving away. Rhys raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So… What am I going to be doing? Paperwork, or scheduling meetings for you, or…?”

Jack laughs in amusement. “What, like secretary shit? Nah, that’s what Cheryl out there does. You’re going to do basically whatever I tell you, got it? I say jump, you say how high, yadda yadda.”

Rhys nods slowly. So, still no real job description. But Jack is being almost friendly so far, so he’s calming down just a little. “Yes, sir.”

Jack smacks his face almost fondly and then suddenly he’s behind the chair, wheeling it across the spacious office. Rhys clutches to it desperately, expecting to be tipped out of it at any moment. “Sooo, this here is going to be _your_ desk.” There’s a small, standard issue Hyperion desk in the far corner, which he stops them at.

Rhys looks at the workspace in confusion and surprise, then cranes his neck to look up at Jack. “Wait, right here? In your office?”

He’s looking down his perfectly straight nose at Rhys, leaning casually against the back of the chair. “That’s right, cupcake.” There’s definitely something predatory in his eyes now as he spins the chair so that Rhys is facing him again, placing a hand on either armrest to box him in. Rhys remembers now, the way Jack had phrased this job offer so possessively, and his teeth clamp down on the inside of his cheek. “I want you. Right. Here.” The voice takes on a note of menace. “Is that a problem? Any complaints?”

Rhys shakes his head quickly. “No! No. I just kind of thought… You were the kind of guy that likes privacy?”

Jack laughs. “Oh, I _am_. But kid, I’ve seen what makes you tick. I’m not worried about you. You proved yourself by bringing me back here, didn’t you? In fact,” and here he leans even closer, until his lips are at Rhys’s right ear. His eyes roll over, straining to focus on Jack. “ _I don’t want you out of my sight, sugar._ ”

Rhys gulps.

Jack withdraws again, pulling himself to sit on Rhys’s new desk. He uses one steel-toed boot to swivel the chair around to face him. “Now then. Task number one. Take off that shirt. And that stupid fucking skinny tie. Seriously, where do you shop?”

All Rhys can muster is a nervous chuckle. Another joke, right? But Jack just holds his gaze, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “Uh. What?” The left side of his face is starting to throb dully with phantom pain again, and it’s only making this whole situation harder to navigate.

“I said _take off your shirt_. Did I fucking stutter?”

“But why?” This is weird. His mind flashes back to those awkward videos on sexual harassment that they showed all new Hyperion employees. All the scenarios ended with the offender meeting some kind of grisly fate, but somehow he doesn’t think that policy would apply to Handsome Jack.

“Hhhooooohmygod.” Jack groans, rolling his eyes and scratching idly at one of his mask’s clasps. “This is a bad start. A bad, bad start. Remember that whole ‘how high’ thing we talked about? Listen, this is the first and only time I’m going to explain a command to you, but I just want to check and see if those hack doctors did any damage. Next time I give you an order, just _do it._ ”

Okay, so that seems like flawed logic. The operation was on his head, not his torso. But he isn’t about to question Jack again after that warning, so his fingers fumble with his tie (which is super awesome and fashionable by the way, he doesn’t care what Jack says,) pulling it off and draping it over the arm of the chair. Jack already saw him shirtless on Pandora technically, right? Nothing to worry about.

The CEO seems to be watching his movements intently. As Rhys undoes button after button on his grey silk shirt, Jack’s eyes follow. “They did a good job on that arm, didn’t they? Thing really moves seamlessly.” Rhys doesn’t answer, just shrugs awkwardly out of his shirt as soon as the last button is undone. He sits kind of scrunched forward a bit, subconsciously shielding his body from Jack’s scrutiny, the cool still air pressing flush to his skin.

Jack snaps his finger then fluidly points up. “Alright, stand.” Rhys obeys, focusing on the dull pulse in his temple.

“What, no miraculous six pack development like your nerdy little friend?”

Rhys furrows his brow. “It’s only been, like, a month. How could I get ripped in a hospital bed?”

Jack shrugs. “I dunno, that guy _has_ to be on roids or something.” He waves Rhys forward, spreading his legs casually like he expects Rhys to stand between them.

Well, if it’s that or getting disembowled, the choice is easy. How often did he picture scenarios just like this only a few months ago? Like, daily? Sure, now that he (kind of) knows Jack there’s a lot more terror and a lot less lust, but don’t look a gift horse in the mouth right? He steps forward so that he’s only a foot or so from where Jack perches. He takes a shaky breath.

Jack’s hand reaches out to press in the center of his chest, and then skates down to his ribs. “Nah, I like you better like this. Your face is too pretty to be secretly ripped, it’d look like a bandit hacked off your head and glued it on someone else. Which is totally a thing those inbred savages like to do.” His fingers continue moving along firmly, stopping now and then to poke and prod, ghosting over his flat but embarrassingly soft stomach. Zero muscle definition. Jack turns him roughly around with a hand on his hip, gives the same treatment to his back. “See, I’m just inspecting the goods, as it were. Really I was joking at first, but the look on your face was god damn priceless, and now I’m having fun, so.”

Rhys can feel himself reacting to Jack’s movements. _Oh god god god not now._ He tries so hard to focus on the pain in his head, the pain from not taking his next dose of meds on time. It’s just that he hasn’t been touched by somebody in any way that could even be construed as intimate since… What, like a year ago? More? Climbing the corporate ladder had left surprisingly little time for sex.

Jack 'hms' thoughtfully. “Yeah, not a bad little package. Not too smart, but also not _too_ dumb. And I gotta admit you had a decent amount of balls down on Pandora for some desk monkey.” One of the hands grabs his human wrist, spinning him back around.

“Can I put stuff back on now?” He asks impatiently, staring carefully to the right of Jack’s face.

“Yeah, sure sure.” Jack grins, flapping his hand dismissively as he stands up and shoulders past. Rhys immediately grabs his shirt, so very grateful that whatever erection he’d started to develop has flagged.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, here we are. Hope it's up to your smut standards. Thanks for all the kudos and sweet comments, you guys really help motivate me to write!

“Hey kiddo, are you writing this stuff down?”

Rhys nods in affirmation, tapping away on the echo device in front of him. They’re in one of Hyperion’s many meeting rooms currently, surrounded by five pompous douches in suits. All of who are sweating nervously through their pomade as Jack interrogates them over the mishandling of some weapons account.

Jack grins, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Good! Because I’m going to want it on record when I tell these bunch of sniveling jackasses that they. Are. Fired!”

There’s a moment of stillness in the room. The sound of said sniveling jackasses being unwilling to comprehend what’s just happened.

“Oh man, type like, a little description of each of their faces too. Ooh, ooh! I think the fat one is about to cry! Are you getting this? Please tell me you’re getting this. I want to go back later and really savor the sheer spinelessness.”

Working as Handsome Jack’s PA for the last two months has been . . . Surprisingly okay. Especially considering the hefty pay increase and the respect that comes with working close to Jack without being fired or murdered (or both.)

Rhys had been afraid it would be some kind of protracted exercise in humiliation, Jack’s weird idea of revenge and/or entertainment. But Jack actually has him doing work, combing through files when he needs certain information or taking notes at meetings. Sure, it’s all mildly secretarial in exactly the way Jack had said it _wouldn’t_ be, but a bit more hands on. Slightly more prestigious in the scheme of things, considering some of the files he’s combing are at least some level of classified, and a lot of the meetings he jots notes in concern Big Important Things (none of which Rhys is really equipped to understand, but still.)

It’s a good five minutes by the time Jack’s laughter starts to wind down. Rhys can’t really muster any sympathy for these guys, since they’re exactly the type of conniving jerks he’s been working with for his entire career. He’s pretty sure one of them spilled coffee on him once, and then made him fetch _more_ coffee. If they couldn’t handle the account they shouldn’t have taken it.

“Ha… Yeah.” Jack mimes wiping a tear from his cheek and then stands abruptly, causing the recently ex-Hyperion men to flinch. Rhys notes it down.

“Alright kitten, let’s get out of here. I have an appointment with a sweet-ass footlong sub here in a few!” Jack exclaims, slapping Rhys on the shoulder. As they walk through the door Jack pauses thoughtfully, turning. “Oh yeah! You guys have abouuut… Rhys, time?”

Rhys checks the display on his ECHO eye. “It’s 11:14.”

“Yeahhh, you guys have like ten minutes to get your shit and get the hell off my space station before the turrets are programmed to shoot you in your stupid faces. So I would recommend getting to the shuttle bay, like, now.”

There’s a moment of alarm and then a mad scramble as all five of the guys run through the door. One of them is momentarily waylaid by a chair he trips on, so Jack is laughing another few minutes, hand gripped uncomfortably tight on Rhys’s shoulder as they watch the men fly down the hall.

 

* * *

 

So, really, the only downside to Rhys’s gig as PA is that Jack still enjoys unbalancing him an unholy amount. Which, alright, that’s the least he could have expected really. Mostly it’s using the sarcastic pet names in public, or touching him unnecessary amounts.

It hasn’t progressed past the touching yet, though it’s definitely enough to be considered harassment. But nothing overtly sexual has happened since the time Jack made him take his shirt off, so Rhys is beginning to calm down. And when Jack’s busy or absorbed in thought it all seems to abate, and Rhys goes back to being just another employee who can do his job.

But Rhys has noticed Jack having _moods_ a lot, some deep frustration that has him pacing the office like a caged tiger or slumped back in his chair broodingly for hours. If Rhys didn’t know better he would call it a kind of depression, but he thinks Jack has _that_ particular spectrum of emotions closed off entirely, so he mostly strives to ignore it and treads carefully.

The problem is that when Jack’s in one of those moods, the only thing that seems to make him feel better is to somehow torment Rhys. Nothing that Rhys can’t bear so far, no physical torture or whatever. Just a lot of little jibes and practical jokes and ramping up the physical contact until Rhys has to flinch away in embarrassment.

Rhys walks back into the office after his lunch-break with Vaughn and Yvette to find Jack in exactly that kind of mood. The taller man is leaned back in his cushy chair, feet kicked up and crossed on his desk. The footlong sub he’d made Rhys fetch for him is practically uneaten, just kind of sadly dissected and left scattered across a few files.

Jack is staring at the mangled sandwich sternly, hands behind his head. He doesn’t acknowledge Rhys’s entrance in any way, even when Rhys stands expectantly just inside the door. By now Jack would usually be requesting another cup of coffee, his third for the day. But nope, nothing.

Rhys shrugs and moves towards his desk, figuring he’ll finish double-checking Jack’s schedule for next week while he waits for any new assignments, but when he gets there he freezes in his tracks. Because the wall above his desk is covered in posters. Not just any posters, but all of the motivational Handsome Jack posters that had once adorned his old office. Like, the _exact same posters_ somehow, Rhys knows because Vaughn taped a picture of Rhys’s face over Jack’s in one as a joke, and that’s still there. He’ll be damned if the configuration on the wall isn’t exactly the same too.

“Like what I’ve done with the place sugar?” Jack drawls in his ear, and Rhys jumps a bit in surprise. Jack has a bad habit of doing that, moving silently up behind him all the time.

Rhys’s face is hot with embarrassment as he turns to face Jack, taking a step back in the process. “Uh, no. What the fuck? Where did you even get these?”

Jack snickers, crossing his arms. He’s clearly pleased with himself. “You remember wallet-head?”

Rhys squints. “You mean Vasquez?” Rhys honestly hasn’t thought much about the man since his return to Helios. He figured Jack fired and/or killed him, and that was that. As much as he’d hated the guy, nearly dying a whole bunch on Pandora and then somehow becoming Jack’s right-hand man had put things into perspective a bit.

Jack nods enthusiastically, crossing his arms. “Yeah, yeah, him. Y’know. Wallet-head.”

There’s a moment of silence. Rhys looks from the posters and back to Jack, still embarrassed but at the moment confused enough to tamp it down. “Um. So?”

“ _So_ ” Jack says, leaning forward until he is very much in Rhys’s personal bubble, “they threw all your shit away when you were on Pandora, right? Assumed you were dead or defecting to another company or blah blah blah. So, who did I make dig through the massive trash bay to find these babies?”

“Let me guess. Vasq— I mean, ‘wallet-head’?”

Jack hums an affirmative, moving to survey his work proudly. “Consider it a present for doing such a not-shitty job so far.” He taps the one that has Rhys’s face pasted onto Jack’s body (which is standing with one foot casually grinding a bandit’s face into the dirt.) “This one’s my favorite. Really gives your little crush on me that slight push into serial-killer territory. Super funny.”

Rhys grimaces, moving to take down one of the posters. “Vaughn did that as a joke.” He murmurs defensively.

Jack’s hand catches his human wrist mid-air. “Ah-ah-ah. What d’you think you’re doing there, pumpkin?”

“Listen, as funny as this is, especially the part where Vasquez had to fish through garbage for them, I _really_ don’t want these hanging up here—“

Jack’s seems to be enjoying this. “Nah. They’re staying. Really go with the whole feng shui of the place, right?” His fingers still circle Rhys’s wrist like iron as he lowers it to their side, pulling Rhys to face him. The lip of the desk digs into Rhys’s butt as Jack crowds him in. Jack’s cologne is sharp in his nose.

“I’m just trying to make you feel at _home_ Rhysie. I mean, you’re clearly super into me, and as I always point out, _who isn’t?_ So there’s no reason to hide it if it makes your mundane little life a bit more bearable.” The fluorescent lights play off of the clasps of Jack’s mask as he talks. Rhys’s pulse is going nuts where Jack’s fingers hold; he doesn’t know what to do. _Wait it out dude_ he tells himself, maintaining silence, _he’ll get bored of playing with you in a bit._

“I mean, normally I’d kill a guy for having the nuts to think he could ever be anything like me. Like wallet-head! After he found those posters I totally just ejected him into space with the rest of the trash. Haha, it was awesome, his eyeballs were like ‘pbbt!’” Jack pushes a bit on Rhys’s chest until he’s forced to sit back on the desk, then forces the hand he’s holding flat onto its surface. “But _you,_ you’re pretty enough that it’s kinda cute. Y’know. Like when a dog starts thinking it’s people?”

What the hell does Jack want from him? Fear, anger, some weird gratefulness? Rhys has improved a bit at reading him in the last few months, but right now he just doesn’t know. All he can focus on is the warmth of Jack’s fingers around his wrist. He tries taking it back, like breaking the contact might give him some hold on the situation, but Jack just slams it back to the desk.

Jack leans like that a moment, searching Rhys’s face almost disappointedly. It’s clear that Rhys is boring him by not reacting. Like a kid poking a dog with a stick, hoping to get a rise out of it.

Then Jack’s face lights up, like his brain has struck on a new vein of entertainment. “ _In fact,_ he murmurs richly, nudging in between Rhys’s legs. “How often did you jerk it while I watched you from these posters, huh? I bet it was pathetic, sneaking in a quickie when everyone’s gone home because you don’t just want to _be_ Handsome Jack.”

Rhys swallows thickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That whole masturbation scenario actually hits a bit too close to home.

Jack snorts. “I’m talking about _you_ wanting the big, powerful CEO to fuck you, kiddo.”

He can’t help it; his face blanches at having it said out loud. But that had been old Rhys, right? Rhys before he actually _knew_ Jack, Rhys who was turned on by the thought of money and power and danger.

He’s tired of Jack messing with him like this, talking about his feelings like they’re only there as an amusement. His mechanical arm shoves Jack back abruptly, and that is apparently the _wrong move_ because after a look of shock Jack is back in his face in an instant, shoving him back down to the desk. He’s practically snarling as he takes hold of _both_ of Rhys’s wrists this time.

“What. Do you want. From me.” Rhys grits out, doing his best to stare Jack down. He’s not scared of him. Okay, so he’s a _little_ scared of him, but not enough to sit here and be toyed with and belittled any more. He hates when Jack is like this.

Jack’s look of fury slides back into a toothy grin as he tilts his head. “Ooh, kitty’s got _claws_.” His fingers flex around Rhys’s wrists. “What do you think I could _possibly_ want from you?”

“If you’re going to fuck me why don’t you just _do it_ already.” Rhys spits. He falters slightly. He can barely believe he had the guts to say that, especially to Handsome frickin’ Jack.

And then Jack hoists him by the armpits, pushing him against the nearest wall before grabbing both wrists again. He’s convinced he’s about to get beaten to death because Jack looks fucking insane, strands of hair splaying across his forehead and lips sneering, but instead their lips slam together suddenly and Jack is kissing him hard and mean, sucking his bottom lip into a bite before pulling back. Rhys’s jaw drops in confusion.

“Oh I’m _sorry_ princess.” He breathes against Rhys’s jaw, “Was that or wasn’t that an invitation?” There it is again, that condescending amusement. It should make Rhys angry, the way it has this whole encounter. But with some of Jack’s spit on his lips it just makes him, well, kinda hard.

“Look at me.” Rhys tries to turn away and Jack releases his left wrist, catching his chin and pressing his thumb into his jaw painfully hard. “ _Look at me._ Do I look like the kind of guy that has to _force_ people to fuck him?” Rhys’s stomach flips. He shakes his head numbly. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Now make no fucking mistake, you are _mine_ robo-boy. But this” and here Jack presses his crotch to where he stands between Rhys’s legs, growling “is something you have to _ask nicely_ for.”

Rhys’s heart is definitely thudding against his ribs by this point. He finds himself filled with heat again, squeezes his eyes shut. God damn it. God damn it he _does_ want it, he does and he doesn’t all at the same time. It takes him a long minute, but the word slips quietly past his lips almost of its own volition. “Please.”

“Please _what_ ” Jack hisses in his ear, hands leaving his wrists and moving to his hips.

“Please . . . Sir.”

Jack actually _laughs_ , ducking his head to bite and lick at Rhys’s jaw. His left hand slides down, rubs against Rhys’s half-hard dick through his slacks. “Y’know I mostly just wanted to fuck with you today in, like, the funny sense. But this works too.”

Rhys can’t believe what’s happening, he can only bite back a curse as Jack undoes his belt and zipper with one hand, pulling him roughly through the slit in his boxers. “Nah-ah. No holding out on me kiddo.” Jack slides his hand over Rhys’s cock and this time he can’t suppress a moan. “That’s it. That-a boy.” Jack praises, and Rhys is _pretty_ sure that Jack is smelling him and that only makes him twitch. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he’s actually afraid to try and touch Jack, so he just presses his palms flat against the coolness of the wall.

Jack’s strokes pick up the pace pretty quickly, to the point where it almost hurts with no lube to ease the way. But Rhys is leaking pre-cum like crazy, stuck in some kind of daze as Jack’s heat and musk press against him like a wall. The movements are no-nonsense, brisk and almost business-like as Jack’s other hand undoes the first few buttons of his shirt.

“Be honest with me this time kid, you’ve thought about this.” Jack leans in; grins against Rhys’s throat before biting so hard that there’s no way it won’t leave a mark. Rhys releases a strangled gasp. He keeps his rhythm up as his other hand moves around to grab at Rhys’s ass. “And you totally _did_ jerk it to those posters, huh, you dirty little freak?”

Rhys is caught up in the moment, trying desperately to buck into Jack’s hand. He’s already getting close, so close. He nods weakly.

“Hmm.” Jack slides the free hand under Reese’s shirt, scratching down his ribs. “Not too proud to admit it now that my hand’s on your dick, huh?” Jack says with a pointed squeeze.

Again, Rhys can only shake his head in response. He’s so close. Seeing Jack’s hand moving on him, his head obscenely wet, it’s too much. “C’mon, sugar” Jack hisses as if he’s put upon, even as he’s pressing his own erection into Rhys’s hip. “I don’t have all fucking day.”

It’s not even the weirdest thing that’s driven Rhys to orgasm, and it certainly does just that, his hand flying up to clench itself in Jack’s clothes, head slumping back against the wall. “Oh god, Jack” he moans, jerking in the other man’s hand as he comes. It feels like he’s been hit by a train.

He can only pant there for a moment before he comes back to reality. Jack smirks at him, slapping his cheek lightly with his clean hand as he wipes the other off on Rhys’s shirt. “Now then. Down.”

Rhys is coming back to himself a bit now, and he stares down at the new stain in disbelief. “What the fuck! This is the only shirt I have here today—“

Jack interrupts him with another light slap, like he’s a puppy. “Ah ah ah. I said _down._ ” There’s that look in Jack’s eyes like he means it, means it with the threat of unpleasant things behind it, so Rhys slides to his knees obediently.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from the last chapter. I've been stuck at home all day because I had my wisdom teeth out this morning, so my pain is your gain.

Rhys sits on his knees uncomfortably, stuffing his softening erection back into his boxers in embarrassment while he waits for some kind of signal from the man towering over him.

Jack is just staring down at him, smiling with his head tilted to the side. Rhys is face level with the very obvious erection in Jack’s slacks, and it’s hard not to stare. Had _he_ really done that, done that to Jack? The thought makes his nerves dance a bit, shaky as he still is from his orgasm.

Jack tilts his chin up gently with his forefinger so that their eyes meet. His other hand moves to undo his own belt-buckle. “Can’t keep your eyes off it, eh tiger?” He says in amusement. 

The whole situation is making it hard to do anything but submit to Jack, even despite that small part of him (the only part with dignity he supposes) that bridles at the patronization. Rhys just shakes his head mutely, struggling to maintain the eye contact Jack has so pointedly established. Jack’s finger crooks so that he can scrape his nail up Rhys’s chin, stopping beneath his lip to tap idly. 

“Well, I think it’s time for your _real_ reward now” Jack says as his finger traces along Rhys’s lips. Rhys gets the idea, does the only thing he can do and opens his mouth before closing his eyes as the finger slips in. He thinks he hears Jack hum in appreciation, and then he feels the calloused ridges as a second finger slips past. How were Jack’s fingers this _rough_? Rhys knows he leaves Helios sometimes for classified “errands,” but he still mostly works a desk-job—

“Not quite thick enough to call ‘em dick-suckin’ lips, but I’ll give you one thing kid.” Jack grins as Rhys runs his tongue along them instinctively, tasting ink and traces of his own come, “they’re soft as hell and okay to look at.”

Rhys’s eyes open as Jack’s finger pull out with a pop, and he watches Jack undo his fly, letting his pants drop to the ground with a jingle of his belt buckle. He’s wearing striped yellow boxers that, again, do nothing to make his erection look any less intimidating.

Rhys’s heart is picking up again in that annoying jack-hammer-trying-desperately-to-escape-his-chest kinda way. “I uh” Rhys swallows, “I haven’t done this in a long time…” With his own lust more or less sated the whole situation is starting to make him nervous and doubtful again. Would Handsome Jack shoot him for a bad blowjob? 

Jack gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not expecting you to be King of the Blowjobs here. Take your shirt off.” Rhys’s hands pause in hesitation at the collar of his shirt before he obeys, unbuttoning it dutifully before undoing his tie and dropping both beside him on the floor.

The sight seems to do something for Jack, because he growls slightly, grabbing Rhys by the hair and pulling him forward. “ C’mon cupcake. Show me what you can do. That mouth has gotta be good for something.”

Rhys reaches shakily to pull down Jack’s boxers, revealing the end of a dark but neat happy trail and the tops of strong thighs. So, yeah, Jack’s definitely bigger than him in that area, but nothing too crazy. His ECHO HUD helpfully supplies him with a measurement of 7", which is—okay; well at least it’s not going in his ass, right? Because it’s not _that_ ridiculously over average but it’s also not anything to sneeze at.

Jack’s fingers tighten in the back of his hair impatiently. He leans in, tentatively licking up the base until he reaches the tip. He thinks he feels Jack exhale with actual _satisfaction_ , which is kind of amusing, so he does it again, this time opening his mouth to suck up the side. 

The way Jack’s fingers are knotted in his hair is building that low heat in his stomach again. Making it a bit easier to subjugate himself like this. This is _Handsome Jack_ after all, he reminds himself. He doesn’t think of all the terrible shit he’s seen Jack do since, just tries to remember how he’d seen Jack _before_ , larger than life, full of charm and wit and unbridled power.

Jack guides him a bit roughly to suck the head into his mouth. “Ahhh, that’s the ticket,” he moans over him, petting rewardingly at his hair a bit. Rhys tries to start bobbing back and forth, but Jack’s hips begin to move on their own and the hand grips his hair so firmly he can’t move, so all he’s really doing is struggling to maintain some kind of suction.

“Oh kid, I’ve thought since day one that I’d like to fuck that good looking little face of yours.” Jack hisses, building his tempo a little. Rhys is struggling to keep his throat open at this point, although it’s mercifully not being thrust the whole way in. And yeah, his erection is definitely back with a vengeance, so he can’t keep back a little moan at the statement.

“I mean, do you know how _frustrating_ it is?” Jack punctuates with a deeper shove, one that simultaneously brings water to Rhy’s eyes and makes him grab uselessly at his own crotch. “Sitting at my desk having to _watch_ you all day, bending over and shit in those ridiculous skinny pants?”

A more levelheaded Rhys might point out that Jack had arranged things that way himself, but Rhys is not a levelheaded creature at the moment, not when he’s rubbing himself through his pants as Handsome Jack thrusts in and out of his dripping mouth. 

“I just don’t get it” Jack hisses between thrusts, and Rhys has to grab the lightly haired thighs at this point to keep from falling over as Jack’s tempo and fury seem to increase in tandem, and he’s surprised when he isn’t shoved away. “Why you? Why do I give a single flying fuck about a _scrawny_ ” thrust “little” thrust “ _wannabe_ ” thrust.

Rhys watches through slatted eyes. He’s sucking in air desperately through his nose, not sure how much more he can take, but there’s some dumb part of him that doesn’t want to let Jack down. 

Jack loses either the inclination or the ability to talk, then. He’s too consumed with whatever angry lust is propelling him in and out of Rhys’s mouth. Rhys has to start ignoring his own erection because it’s not like he can come so soon anyway, and it’s taking all of his effort not to gag as Jack shoves more and more of himself in. 

It seems like an eternity later that Jack brings both hands to fist in his hair, forcing him to look up just slightly. Jack’s staring at him with something between a sneer and unbridled desire, and then he buries the entirety of himself in Rhys’s mouth with a strangled “fuck” and comes.

It doesn’t seem like spitting is an option, not when Jack keeps himself rooted in Rhys’s mouth to the last. Rhys manages to swallow the spurts as they come; hot and salty, scalding his throat, with his eyes watering like he’s just gotten a good kick in the balls. Jack stays like that a moment, panting jaggedly, his hands still gripping Rhys’s hair like he has no intention of ever letting go.

Finally he pulls out, pulling his pants up efficiently as he redoes fly and buckles, staring down at a thoroughly wrecked Rhys.

He reaches out to wipe a strand of spit from Rhys’s lip, clearly more out of disgust than tenderness, staring down at him for a moment thoughtfully. “Yeah, there’s fresh shirts in that closet over there” he says, jerking a finger over his shoulder. “Borrow one, bring it back in next week _dry-cleaned_.” 

And just like that, Jack leaves. No explanation about where he’s going or what just happened. No indication of whether Rhys should just forget this or expect it to become part of his duties or, worst of all, pack up his things and get the fuck out.

That night, when Rhys shambles into the apartment he shares with Vaughn, it’s in a very expensive silk shirt belonging to Handsome Jack, with zero idea of whether he’ll be dead on Monday, forgotten about, or whether “sex” is going to be added to Jack’s methods of tormenting him.

He collapses into bed and wishes he couldn’t smell Jack’s cologne all over his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay unnecessary aside on Jack's penis size; yes, I know large dicks in fic is a bit of cliche, and 7" is certainly respectably over-average, but having encountered a few even around 9" "in the wild" they're not crazy apparently? And for some reason I feel like Jack just has to have something a bit over average but not insane, considering his confidence in himself.
> 
> Wow this was an unnecessary end note, OKAY BYE POST SOME MORE THIS WEEKEND I HOPE


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these chapters are short. Too short? Would you guys prefer quicker updates or more of a wait with longer chapters?

Rhys brings the borrowed shirt back in Monday, dutifully dry-cleaned and pristine. He goes into work way early specifically so that he can put it back before Jack gets there, hoping that will somehow make it less of a “thing.” But to his frustration, the fricking retinal scanner isn’t letting him in to Jack’s office, and _of course_ this is the first time he’s experienced that particular problem.

“C’mon, c’mon.” He mumbles to himself, planted firmly before the door that leads to his and Jack’s combined office, tilting his head at various angles as if that’s the issue here. Cheryl the secretary hasn’t even arrived yet, that’s how damn early he came here in the hopes of avoiding any kind of awkward conversations over the return of this shirt. 

He tries combinations of winking, blinking, and squinting for about ten minutes. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The scanner keeps aiming its red laser at his eye, then flickering off, like he’s been rejected. 

What if . . . What if it’s not an error? What if his access has been revoked, because he’s been fired or demoted or just completely forgotten about? After what happened between them last week it wouldn’t be that surprising, really. 

Just as he’s about to give up, a voice clicks on from a speaker somewhere overhead. “Hey, genius!”

Rhys blinks. “Uh. Jack?”

“You going to stand there flirting with the scanner all day or are you going to come inside?”

Rhys’s nervousness is slightly overridden by annoyance. “It won’t let me _in_. “

Jack’s voice is slightly tinny over the intercom. It reminds Rhys of how it sounded when he was just a hologram, a voice in his head. “It was locked, idiot. I’ve been here working all night and I didn’t feel like being interrupted. Try again.”

The scanner flicks into life, scanning his eye for the umpteenth time this morning. This time it gives a happy beep of approval and the office door slides open. Rhys is nervous to face Jack, but he can’t help but feel relieved that he apparently hasn’t been fired. _Yet_.

Jack is hunched over at his desk, forehead in hand as he stares at the holo-screen hovering before him. There’s a mess piled around him, empty coffee mugs, blue-prints, ECHO devices. His shoulders are stiff, Rhys can practically _see_ the manic energy thrumming through him, his brow furrowed, fingers buried in his hair.

“Why didn’t you let me in sooner if you knew I was out there?” Rhys grumbles as normally as he can, walking across the room to his own desk and setting down his Hyperion shoulder bag. The posters are still there, which he ignores judiciously.

Jack flaps his hand, not turning his eyes from the monitor. “Yeah, well it was funnier watching you have mini-seizures from the security feed. But alas, work to be done and all that crap.”

Okay, the usual amounts of heckling then. Good. Rhys fiddles with the papers on his desk for a moment as he considers what to do with the shirt. Wait until later to put it back, hope Jack forgets? Put it back now and risk having Jack notice? Just looking at it is reminding him of the way Jack had touched him the other day. Kissed him. He swallows and looks at the other man from the corner of his eye. Best to play it normal, Jack’s not even paying attention to him really.

He strides across the office as casually as he can, clutching the hanger in the hand furthest from Jack, angling it so that it’s mostly hidden from view. _Don’t think about semen_ has become his inner mantra after Jack ruined his shirt last week. He remembers throwing it away later that night, shooting Vaughn a look that very specifically said _Do **not** ask._

The closet is built seamlessly into the wall, which is made out of actual _wood_ , because Jack’s current office is the only part of Hyperion not decorated with thick industrial sheets of metal. Metal would clash with the marble floors, _obviously_ , which Jack had explained when Rhys had reflected it was the most wood he’d seen in one place in his life. He presses his fingers to a hidden button and the door cracks open silently.

“Why are you here so early anyway? Morning cartoons end early? No prize in the cereal box to occupy yourself with?” Jack asks as Rhys slips the shirt back into its place amongst the other expensive garments, pressing the door closed as quietly as he can. He walks back to the disaster zone that is Jack’s desk. 

“ _No_. I mean, shut-up. The real question is, why are you here so _late_.” He eyes a discarded handkerchief that has been used to sop up a coffee spill and also displays, in pen, a smudged list of names that, knowing Jack, is most probably a hit list. Especially considering it is written under the word “Assholes,” which has been emphatically underlined not once but thrice.

Jack flicks his wrist, scrolling through the data displayed on the holo-screen. “Because I’m a fucking _genius_ and I’m on the verge of figuring out something big. Like, big-big.”

Rhys leans on the edge of the desk, squinting at the rapidly scrolling screen. For the life of him, he has no idea how Jack is parsing any of it, but he can’t help but be interested. Seeing Jack like this, seemingly wired with the thrill of whatever he’s onto, intent and tapping furiously at an ECHO device, it fills him with a bit of the old awe. Awe for he man who rose to the top overnight, who transformed the company with a sweep of his arm and a flash of a smile.

He glances at Jack, who still hasn’t looked at him once, before activating his ECHO eye. Knowing what’s happening can only improve his effectiveness as a PA, after all. The only thing he catches on his read-out are a few flashes of words in the bold capital text of the holo-screen; Pandora. Eridium. He mouths the words unconsciously and suddenly Jack is up, slamming his chest to the desk, sending wrappers and tech flying from their piles.

Rhys gasps in unexpected pain as Jack hisses in his ear. “What’re you doing there, cupcake? Getting a little nosy?” The deceptively sing-song lilt of his voice crackles with suppressed anger. His fingers flex where they grip Rhys’s shirt, grinding his face into the polish of the desk. 

It’s the first time Rhys has felt truly afraid in the gut-clenching pants-shitting way. The vibe is much different from Jack pushing him to the wall last week, there’s a fury pulsing through it with big dark teeth. “No! Nonono. I’m sorry, I was just—“

“What, scanning valuable information with your ECHO eye? Thinking of climbing that corporate ladder another rung to the top?” Rhys suppresses a mortifying whimper as Jack grabs him by the hair, pulling his head up just enough to lean over and stare him in the eye. 

“No! Ow, fuck. I was just _interested,_ you looked so intense and it’s not like I even understand what I saw.”

Jack’s fingers tighten in his hair and he hisses in pain. He’s mildly ashamed that he’s not fighting back, but there’s something in Jack that screams total dominance right now, and he does not want to challenge it. “I just wanted to _help_ with whatever it was, and— You’re fucking _hurting_ me.”

Something flickers across Jack’s face like— what, confusion? Almost like he’s just now noticed what he’s doing. He releases Rhys like he’s been burned. Rhys stays pressed to the desk, afraid to move.

“Stand up.”

Rhys straightens out uncertainly, staring at Jack’s shoes. He’s a little rattled, naturally.

Jack exhales through his nose, long and hard, like he’s expelling all the rage that came before. He ruffles his fingers through his hair. “Look. I’m a bit _on edge_ right now. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Rhys nods his head uncertainly. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.”

Jack looks at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes and falling back into his chair. “Stop looking like a kicked skag. I’m not used to-- Look, you’re no threat to me. I know that. Being in your noggin made it pretty clear there’s not an ounce of disloyalty to me in there. Just. Okay, there’s a bunch of data to sift through on that ECHO device at your desk, some key info I want you to dig out. It’s all in the notes.” Jack turns back to his holo-screen. There’s still detritus scattered across the shining marble floor. “Do _not_ overthink why I’m asking for what I’m asking. When I want to tell you what’s happening, I frickin’ will. Now page the god damn janitor to clean this up.”

“Right.” Rhys walks to his desk unsteadily, trying to calm his heart. He sinks into his chair as he hears Jack over his shoulder. “All you need to know for now is that Handsome Jack is back, baby, _Really_ back. And those bandits are gonna pay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for semi-graphic violence this chapter. Thanks for your patience everybody! The fic train keeps on a-chuggin' despite heinous work hours recently.

It makes everyone at Hyperion a little nervous when Jack sends the first batch of people back to Pandora. They never stopped monitoring the planet, sure, but after the disaster that had been Jack’s death nobody had actually set food on the planet in any official capacity. Ostensibly the return there is purely for typical business reasons— guns are one of Hyperion’s big exports after-all, and on a planet like Pandora guns are in high demand. Not to mention the prospect of eridium mining, which led to Hyperion’s drastically increased profits and expansion in the first place. 

A week goes by with no disasters or deviation from the business model. People calm down. But Rhys, of course, knows the whole thing has to be a purposeful misdirection on Jack’s part. There’s something bigger going down, and he’s itching to be truly in on it.

At the moment they’re in a meeting about the situation on Pandora so far. Various attempted raids by bandit parties, sales, excavation of minor minerals, the tentative resumption of eridium mining, etc. Jack’s had a hands-on attitude about operations on Pandora that far exceeds his attentions to other planets in the Hyperion sphere of influence. 

Jack is seated to Rhys’s left and currently looks very, very bored by the tall blond woman expounding on the virtues of laser mining in a particular cave. His sharp chin is propped up in one hand, fingers of the other tapping the table with audible impatience. Jack meets Rhys’s gaze from the corner of his eyes, rolling them so that Rhys has to suppress a grin before returning his focus to the ECHO device he’s typing notes on. 

“Now, damage to local fauna aside, this is the most expedient method, and it’s going to result in a drastic increase in net profit—“

Jack groans loudly and sinks back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yeah, great Sheila, who gives a flying frick? You had me at ‘more money.’ I think Pandora can stand to lose a few, uh—“

“Spiderants” Rhys supplies helpfully, ECHO eye locating the relevant info on the environmental survey Sheila had passed out.

“— Spiderants, or whatever _else_ might be slithering around down there.”

Sheila titters nervously. “Right, of course you’re right, I’m sooo sorry.” She looks down at her notes. “Well, um I’ll send down some more loaders and another team of engineers, then. We should be up and running with that by the end of the week.”

Jack doesn’t say anything; he just kind of stares Sheila and her red leather jacket down until she sinks haltingly back into her chair. Rhys isn’t sure why Jack insists on being included in these meetings, considering the level of boredom he’s displayed so far. He’s been pretty unpredictable all week though, alternating between moodiness and furious work on— well, on whatever it is he hasn’t deemed Rhys fit to know.

A guy at the other end of the table clears his throat. Jack swivels his head towards the noise slowly. “Well?” He clips. He’s clearly in a piss-poor mood today. 

The guy stands up. He’s tall, moderately good looking, dark-skinned with carefully coiffed hair. Chet, one of the guys brought in to replace the gaggle of low-level execs that Jack had fired. 

“Well,” Chet says, hands stuffed nervously in the pockets of his tailored slacks, “I don’t want to speak out of turn, but I’m really just wondering what the logic was behind this decision. To divert personnel to Pandora again, I mean.”

“You . . . _Excuse me?_ ” Jack leans forward in his chair, palms on his thighs. 

Rhys’s eyes flick back and forth between Chet and Jack. What is this guy thinking? He’s freshly promoted and already calling Jack’s judgment into question? On a day that Jack is clearly itching to shoot someone, no less? Confidence is a good way to rise to the top in Hyperion, but this is a bit ridiculous.

Chet rolls his shoulders, like he’s preparing himself for something. Oh god, oh fuck this guy does not realize what he’s doing. How did he get this high up without hearing stories about Jack? “I mean, the casualties last time were pretty crazy. We made decent profit as I understand, but then you—“

“I _what_?” grits Jack, rising slowly from his chair, which screeches back unpleasantly on the metal floor. The other employees at the table are noticeably stiff. 

“Well, sir, you died. Even just from a business standpoint things fell apart, and the stock plummeted, and we lost a bunch of money just getting the remaining infrastructure off the planet. I think—“

Rhys doesn’t like the way that Jack begins to stalk around the table. “Oh, you _think _? I’m sorry, you have reservations about my decision you walking toupee?”__

__Chet hesitates. He looks like he’s finally scenting the full extent of his error, probably because Jack is closing in on him. If he’s smart he’ll shut up and back-track now. “Well, yes. I think we’re still recovering from your absence, sir, and it might be unwise . . . sacrificing this amount of manpower and supplies.” Rhys can’t help but pinch the bridge of his nose. Right, then. Not smart._ _

__Jack barks a laugh. He’s in front of Chet, standing about a foot away with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. He leans forward, just enough to properly menace. “Oh, _sacrifice_? I’m sorry cupcake, do you know _anything_ about sacrifice?”_ _

__The confusion on Chet’s face increases. “Well . . .“_ _

__Jack holds his chin and nods faux-thoughtfully, and then in one swift move knees Chet in the groin._ _

__Everyone in the room jumps in their chairs just as Chet falls to his knees, clutching his crotch with a look of pure misery. Rhys winces, covers his mouth._ _

__“ _Rhetorical question,_ asshole.” Jack says, placing a steel-toed leather boot on Chet’s shoulder and roughly kicking him the rest of the way to the ground._ _

__There’s no way to describe how Jack stands over Chet other than to say that he’s _looming_. The rage is bubbling up to the surface of his mismatched steel eyes, and Rhys can see it in every line of his body. _ _

__“You see, princess, _I_ know sacrifice.” Jack says before delivering a swinging kick to Chet’s ribs. Chet cries out in pain. _ _

__Rhys motions to the rest of the employees, waving frantically at the door. _Get the fuck out._ he mouths. The last thing he needs is for anyone to get caught in the cross-fire. _ _

__They look at him uncertainly, clearly afraid to do anything without Jack’s express permission, but when another shattering kick is delivered to Chet’s ribs Sheila scurries wide-eyed out the door. The remaining four make eye contact before collectively doing the same, leaving papers and ECHO-pads behind in a rush._ _

__Jack doesn’t appear to notice the mass exodus, and Rhys lets out a huff of relief through his nose, standing unsteadily. “I have sacrificed everything for this company,” Jack laughs, continuing his blows. “I have sacrificed more than a worthless,” kick, “greasy,” kick, “ _ass-kisser_ like you can ever comprehend.” Kick. _ _

__Rhys begins circling the table cautiously, moving towards the two. Chet is definitely coughing up some blood from the kicks to his stomach. He remembers that day in Jack’s office, being shoved against the desk, when Jack could have maimed him and hadn’t. The implication in Rhys’s mind being that Jack _still can.__ _

__“Jack,” he says cautiously when he’s a few feet away. His ECHO eye is showing him Jack’s elevated heart-rate, is noting his aggression. “ _Jack_.” _ _

__Jack looks up at Rhys as if he didn’t notice himself beating a man to death._ _

__“We’re . . . going to be late for lunch?” Rhys says weakly, because it’s the only thing he can think to say._ _

__Jack slowly looks down at Chet, then back to Rhys, then back to Chet. He seems to come to a decision. “You are so, so lucky that I’m hungry,” Jack sneers with one more kick before stepping over Chet, straightening his jacket as he walks. “You better get me that pizza kid, because a good beating makes me—“_ _

__“Fuck you,” Chet’s voice comes from behind Jack, garbled and weak. Jack freezes. Rhys pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to ruin Pandora all over again.” And then Chet actually pulls a fucking repeater from a shoulder holster under his suit jacket, aims and—_ _

__— And Rhys stumbles backwards with the impact of a bullet to his right arm. “What the _hell_!?” he shrieks. It doesn’t hurt obviously, because that’s his metal arm, but it still scares the absolute shit out of him. _ _

__“Oh, you stupid _stupid_ little shit.” Jack snarls, rounding on Chet who is fumbling to regain his grip on the gun after apparently underestimating the recoil. Before he can get off another shot Jack is on top of him, wrestling the gun out of his hands and cracking him across the face with it. _ _

__Rhys can’t move his arm, it seems like the bullet knocked some of the pneumatics loose inside, right above the joint. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he curses, looking from his useless arm to Jack, who is clearly losing his mind._ _

__Chet briefly tries holding up his hands to ward of the blows, but Jack just keeps pulling the pistol back again and again, smashing the grip into Chet’s face like a hammer on a particularly stubborn nail. Rhys has to look away, because watching a man be pistol-whipped to death is frankly not on his list of priorities for the day. Finally there are a few gunshots, one, two, three, and silence. No more sounds of whimpering or splitting flesh, just a sharp iron smell in the air._ _

__Rhys finally looks back. Jack is still straddling Chet’s corpse, repeater dangling from his hand. His body shakes with each shuddering breath, every visible tendon and muscle tensed._ _

__Rhys makes his way to him, arm hanging heavy at his side. “Jack?” He asks cautiously. “Are you . . .”_ _

__“Don’t damage what’s mine.” He mutters, apparently to noone. He rises slowly to his feet. He rolls his neck with a crack, runs a shaking hand through his dark hair and streaks blood through it in the process._ _

__Rhys stands, waiting, unsure if interrupting Jack in this state is wise. Sickly fascinated by the blood lashed across the wiry arms and handsome features._ _

__Jack’s eyes snap to meet his, pupils still dilated, blood crossing his face like a gash. He seems to come back to himself all at once, dropping the gore crusted repeater with a thud as he steps over to Rhys. “Fucked up your arm?” He asks soberly, reaching to inspect Rhys’s limb, turning it from side to side in evaluation._ _

__Rhys looks at him guardedly. Handsome Jack is covered in blood and . . . Concerned, possibly? For him? He shakes his head in the negative before re-thinking it. “Well, I mean, I think it’s just some of the pneumatics. Got knocked lose or something, but uh” his eyes focus on where Jack’s fingers pass over the dinged metal, almost tenderly, leaving smeared fingerprints of red. He swallows. “Yeah. I’m fine.”_ _

__Jack stares him hard in the eye before dropping his arm. It pendulums at his side for a moment before he finally steadies it with his other hand, unsure what to do now. But Jack answers that question by suddenly striding towards the door purposefully, and Rhys scrambles after him._ _

__“Let’s get you to the shop kiddo,” Jack calls loudly over his shoulder. “And then we’re going to have some _words_ with the security lead in this wing.”_ _

__Rhys comes to heel at Jack’s side, still holding his damaged arm. “Yeah, how did he get a repeater in here?” Everyone knows that only specific personnel can carry weapons. Mostly security, Hyperion soldiers, and a few special exceptions like Jack (who can obviously do whatever the fuck he wants.) The entrance to every wing is equipped with a hidden weapon scanner designed to detect all varieties of weapons and ammo; any violation should have pinged security automatically._ _

__“Not sure.” Jack shrugs, “But I’ll tell you one thing. The guy wouldn’t go to the trouble and danger of finding a way to circumvent security if he just wanted to carry a piece around here for shits and giggles. Hey! You! Guy with the stupid glasses!” Jack interrupts his train of thought to point at a nearby secretary without slowing his gait. “Get a cleaning crew in meeting room 35C. I made a bit of a mess.” The guy just nods, clearly shocked at who’s addressing him, already calling somebody up by the time they’ve passed him and gone through the door to another hallway._ _

__“So, why _would_ he be carrying it?” Rhys asks in confusion, trying to puzzle it out. “You think he was a mole or something? For who?”_ _

__“I don’t know,” Jack says darkly, eyes straight ahead. His hands are clenched in fists, and he’s still walking so fast that Rhys struggles to keep up, hindered by the weight of his dead arm. “But whoever it is won’t enjoy the things me and my large cache of weaponry have to say to them.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned next chapter for... "Things." Sexy things.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished this chapter in celebration of the new episode going up! Although this story... Obviously... Is not following that canon...

Rhys is genuinely surprised that the first thing Jack does is take him for repairs.

A middle-aged woman with slightly buggy eyes has his arm back up and running fairly quickly, which _isn’t_ surprising once Rhys learns that she’s the head of Hyperion’s cybernetics lab. Having her toil on a minor mechanical problem seems like it should be beneath her, but Jack had specifically asked for Lisa after storming into the lab with Rhys in his wake. Once everyone had stood gawking at his bloody clothing for a few minutes he had changed the request to a curse-laden command, and then threat. Commands with Jack were almost always threats.

The large ding from the bullet’s impact remains, scratches and chips in the yellow façade radiating outwards like webbing. Having a replacement plate molded is possible but would take time, and although Rhys wouldn’t have to pay a dime, he declines for the time being. It’s just aesthetic after all, and while the old Rhys would have cared about that a whole lot, the Rhys of the present is a little embarrassed about being fussed over (and more importantly, doesn’t want to waste more of Jack’s time with measurements.)

Because, for some unknown reason, Jack has stuck around for the entire repair. This is very shocking to Rhys considering the (back-fired) attempt on his life just over an hour ago. Granted, he’s used the time to make several very angry calls. But Rhys would have expected more hands-on threatening to take precedent rather than Jack’s current activity, which is stalking back and forth in the corner while yelling at somebody over his ECHO, glancing now and then at the progress on Rhys’s arm.

“What the fuck do you _mean_ you can’t find his file? We have state-of-the-art tech and you can’t handle making a simple search in the database? What, did you guys convert to a comically large warehouse full of old filing cabinets without telling me? . . . Yeah. Uh-huh. Well check _again._ Nah-ah, see, I don’t think you’re hearing me. When I say _check again_ I mean you find the fucking personnel file or else I introduce you to the business end of a thresher. What in the actual hell am I paying you people for?”

They’re wrapping up now, Rhys sitting on the end of a scratched-up workbench as Lisa works. She re-attaches the damaged plate, tightening it carefully. Then she has Rhys perform a few exercises to be sure everything is running properly, all with Jack yelling in the background. “Alright,” she says with satisfaction, patting him on the arm. “You’re set.”

Rhys peers over Lisa’s shoulder as he curls and uncurls his metal fingers. Jack’s agitated pacing has increased speed. He seems to have switched to yelling at security at this point, instead of the unlucky data-entry clerk he’d been tormenting previously. All that Rhys catches in a long string of profanity is something about inserting the faulty weapons’ scanner into the security lead’s anal cavity, followed by several weapons of various sizes and levels of sharpness, all in the name of seeing if the “fucking thing” actually worked.

Lisa for her part is ignoring it all completely. She wipes the grease from her hands with a well-used rag. Despite this perfunctory attempt at cleanliness she’s been absentmindedly smearing grease on herself the whole procedure, constantly tucking wiry grey hair behind her ears or scratching her chin. “Keep ‘er nice and lubed. Bullet knocking things loose aside, your joints were dry as a corpse’s tit,” she admonishes, turning to gather the tools she used. 

Rhys chuckles awkwardly, flexing his arm back and forth, grateful to feel it back to its usual fluidity. “Er, yeah. I’ve been so busy lately, I guess I’ve let my maintenance go a teeny bit.” He glances over at Jack, who has apparently disconnected his latest call and is now just watching Rhys with frightening intensity. He shifts uncomfortably where he sits, suddenly very _very_ aware of the fact he’s stripped down to the waist for proper access to his arm. He glances down at where his stomach creases in embarrassment. Damn ice cream.

“Considerin’ how much a cybernetics implant like this is worth, and what with  
your pretty recent surgery and all, I wouldn’t skimp on the maintenance there.” Lisa says dryly, waving the wrench in her hand admonishingly. Rhys can only nod sheepishly in response. He’s fairly certain she was one of the people present when Jack was, uh, removed from his head or whatever. Seems like something the head of cybernetics would be a part of.

“You’re coming back in here for regular check-ups on that thing,” Jack says. Before Rhys can protest he raises a hand and points emphatically. “Listen cupcake, before you say anything about how I ‘shouldn’t worry’ or some other trite bullshit, this is not about me _caring._ This is about the fact that your god damn arm stopped working during an emergency situation, and given that you spend most of your time orbiting me and the cool but dangerous action movie that is my life, I’d prefer if you kept yourself in some kind of working order.” 

Lisa turns towards Jack and raises one dark brow. “What, so I’m in charge of your latest pet’s well-being?” Jack’s glare shifts to her fluidly and she shrugs. “Well, you’re the boss. Willhelm used to take all my time up anyways, this kid’s a piece of cake next to him.”

“Yeah, well, Willhelm was extremely useful until some savages _murdered_ him.” He looks pointedly at Rhys. “But Willheml was an attack dog. This one’s like… One of those annoying little show dogs, y’know, the yippy ones. Now then.” He steps forward, kicking off the wall he had been leaning against and gesturing towards the door with his thumb. “Out.”

Lisa seems a good deal more used to Jack’s idiosyncrasies than most people. She just shrugs, grabs an ECHO and her coffee mug, and leaves. Rhys moves to get off the workbench but Jack presses him down with a hand on his bare shoulder, right over the blue ink of his tattoo. “Nah-ah. Not you tiger. We need to talk.”

Rhys meets Jack’s gaze uneasily. Great. Cornered again. “About what? Shouldn’t we be going over this security breach? Really, I’m fine, and—“

Jack clicks his tongue. “Yeah, see, this is _about_ the security breach.” He produces a data drive from his pocket and holds it in front of Rhys’s nose. Rhys flashes back to the drive he pulled from Nakayama’s corpse, but this one is bright yellow with _Hyperion corp._ in bold text across its side. “I’ve been meaning to give you this little bad boy for a while now, but I kept forgetting. ‘Til, y’know. Chet. Bang bang. Dead.”

Rhys stares at the drive blankly, ignoring the heat of Jack’s hand. Jack, by the way, is still covered in another human being’s blood, and that’s bothering Rhys a lot less than it should. “Well… What is it?”

“Just a bit of re-programming for your cybernetics.” Jack says faux-casually, withdrawing his hand from Rhys’s shoulder to flick the cap off of the drive and attempt to hand it over.

Rhys immediately stiffens, shying away from the proffered drive. “Whoawhoawhoa. _Re-programming?_ ” He wasn’t too fond of the last instance he’d jammed data into his head, regardless of the fact it had more-or-less worked out. It had still been a terrifying sensation, having something in you that you couldn’t control or will away. Being afraid your very brain was being changed irrevocably.

Jack drops his hand, clearly annoyed. He’s still too serious looking for Rhys’s liking, clearly wound up tight from the scuffle earlier. A muscle in the side of his jaw twitches, weirdly visible through the mask. “Really, you need me to spell it out for you? Can’t just do as I ask for once? Fine. This is for your own fucking safety as much as mine. Allows remote access to the optical components of your ECHO eye, but only by me.”

Rhys can’t help but balk. “Wait wait wait. You want to— You want to _spy_ on me?” 

“What I _want_ ” Jack grits, leaning in slightly, “is to have an eye on you _if I need it_. You want to be involved in what I’m _really_ doing on Pandora? Fine. But that means you’re going to be a target like me, only in much more danger. Becauuuuse you’re incompetent.”

“Incompetent? _Incompetent?_ ” He demands incredulously as Jack’s hand slips from his shoulder. 

Jack rolls his eyes. “I mean at _self-defense_ you moron.”

“I seem to remember doing just… Just _fine_ down on Pandora. I’m pretty sure I killed a few guys!” Definitely not the time to mention that he’s had nightmares about those encounters, but the point stands.

“Listen, cupcake.” Jack says slowly, leaning in again to plant a hand on either side of Rhys on the workbench. The movement puts them roughly face-to-face, Jack’s neck stooping so that he’s just slightly higher than Rhys and close enough now for every individual fleck of red on his jaw to be perfectly visible. His expression is as firm and deadly serious as his tone. “You knocked a few heads down there, yes. Out of sheer dumb panic and the fact that you’re lucky enough to have Hyperion tech heightening your reflexes. _But_ ” he clips, “Do you really think you have the heart of a killer? Do you really think you can replicate those results once trained assassins come after you, instead of a bunch of chemically addled, inbred bandits?”

Rhys frowns for a moment, considering before returning his eyes to Jack’s defiantly. “No. But I still— I’m not comfortable with jamming that thing in my head.”

Jack tilts his head thoughtfully, then leans in very slowly to murmur in his ear. “You don’t have to.” He taps the data drive softly against Rhys’s temple. “ _I_ do. I have to do it so that I can keep an eye on you, because as we have established, you belong to _me_.” He emphasizes the word with another, more emphatic tap of the drive, and Rhys squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes that sentiment didn’t send heat building in his stomach, or dredge up memories of the last time Jack had asserted those words.

Jack moves his other hand to Rhys’s thigh, uses the forefinger of the hand holding the data drive to stroke almost tenderly around the lip of Rhys’s neural port. It sends a shock of electricity through him, and he inhales in surprise, aware that Jack is deliberately manipulating him but finding it hard to object when he’s so _close_.

“If I can see from your eyes when I need to, I can tell you exactly what you need to do in any situation. You could even go places I can’t, see and hear things I couldn’t normally. And I’d be able to have all that information perfectly, as if I’d seen it myself. I wouldn’t be spying _on_ you, you’d be spying _for_ me. Hell, you might become my most valuable asset.” Jack brushes over his port again, sending vibrations down his spine, grip tightening on his thigh through the fabric of his pants. “Don’t you want to do good for me, sweetheart?”

Rhys is definitely, definitely hard now, biting the inside of his cheek. Jack has a point, and he knows it. Would it be so bad, letting him in his head again? It would only be partial after all, not like before. Just like carrying a camera around. And he’d be indispensable, then, special to Jack in some way. Far from the desk-jockey he was before.

“Well?” Jack’s breath gusts against his cheek, and in the process it carries away the last of his will.

“Okay.” He exhales with a slow nod, hyper aware of how Jack’s cheek brushes against his own in the process. “Yeah, alright.”

“Good boy.” Jack leans to smirk against his skin, and Rhys can smell the blood on him, mingling with his high-dollar aftershave, can still see the tendons jutting from his arm as he hammered Chet with that pistol. He teases at Rhys’s port again briefly and then suddenly clicks the drive in. Rhys hisses in surprise, wincing. Jack pulls his head back to watch him, smiling in the sly way that shows his incisors. “See? Not so bad.”

An interface pops up on his retinal display: _Allow changes, y/n?”_ He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Selects yes. 

There’s nothing more for a moment. He frowns, opening an eye. “I don’t think it’s—“ And then it’s like his body seizes up. Suddenly things are being changed, re-wired, and it’s overwhelming, and why does something so intangible have a visceral _sensation_ to it? Water rushing, rushing to fill every nook of his nervous system, the interstices between what is Rhys and not-Rhys, flesh and machine. 

He shakes as things begin to reprogram, body clearly confused as hell by the sudden changes. Jack pulls him tight to his chest, cooing into his hair as he gasps. “Atta boy, that’s it. Thaaaat’s it. Let it in.” 

The seconds stretch into minutes but it feels like _hours_ , and then it ends just as suddenly as it began, like his mind flips a switch from “freaking out” to “normal” and that’s that. It still tingles around his port as Jack pops the drive out, dropping it carelessly to the floor without relinquishing his hold. He rakes his fingertips down Rhys’s bare back once, catching over the knobs of his spine as Rhys shudders out a few more deep breaths, chin dug into Jack’s shoulder. 

“Good choice, kid. You made a good choice.” Jack murmurs, as if Rhys has any choice when it comes to Jack. As if anyone does. And yet the praise gives him that shameful pleasure again. The feeling of having his own god damn brain re-wired has left him feeling hollow, raw, and Jack’s praise is seeping in to fill the hole. He’s boneless. 

“Do you know how . . . _Angry_ it made me, when he shot you?” Jack asks suddenly, voice seemingly tinged with anger at the recollection. 

Rhys doesn’t respond. He’s afraid to move, or too tired, or too _something_. He doesn’t know which anymore, never knows with Jack. 

“It made me want to break that shit-brain’s face,” Jack says darkly into Rhys’s ear, “it made me want to rip out his humerus and beat him to death with it. And do you know the worst part?” 

Rhys swallows. His heart is picking up pace again. He swears that Jack is shaking slightly against him, thrumming with that weird compelling energy of his. “No.” 

“The worst part is that I still don’t know _why._ ” Jack presses on the small of his back until they’re flush against eachother, and he shudders to feel that Jack is hard too, against his belly. Jack’s hands start roving slowly, raking over his shoulder blades, his spine, the jut of his hips. Like he’s taking inventory to see that everything is still there. Rhys clenches the work-bench tightly. It seems like it’s been so long since the first time— the last time— that Jack had been so overt. Rhys had been starting to think that it wouldn’t happen again. Only admitting to himself he wanted it when it was very late at night and he was alone in the expanse of his bed. 

A hand snakes between where their torsos press together, palming up his front until it comes to rest at the base of his throat. Not threatening but firm, one of Jack’s broad thumbs lying over his fluttering pulse. “Do you know how much I hate” the fingers curl around his neck gently, “hatehate _hate_ feeling that way?” He asks, the lips of his mask brushing against the side of Rhys’s neck as he talks. 

“Uh. A lot?” Rhys asks sheepishly. 

There’s a hesitation and Jack barks a crazed laugh, and then he’s biting into the juncture of Rhys’s collarbone and shoulder and climbing first on top of the work-bench and then on top of Rhys, shoving him onto his back. He gasps at the shock of the cold metal against his skin, but then Jack’s lips are against his hard and wanting, hands making quick work of Rhys’s belt and fly as he straddles him. 

“The— Door—“ Rhys chokes out, hands unconsciously coming up to fist in the fabric of Jack’s jacket. It’s shut but not locked, anyone could walk in and see. Jack just bites his lower lip sharply in response, withdrawing to roughly urge Rhys’s hips up, shoving his slacks and boxers down to his thighs before working at his own zipper. Rhys forgets his objection when Jack presses his bared dick to his own, instead moaning “Oh Christ” and fisting his hands in Jack’s filthy shirt. 

From there they’re just rutting together like animals, Rhys moaning and thrusting up to meet Jack even though it’s borderline unbearable without lube. But Rhys can’t help himself. Can’t help watching the top of Jack’s head as he bites across Rhys’s torso, following the path of his tattoo like a treasure map, adding his own marks to the design with sucking and teeth. 

There’s something about the urgency of Jack’s movements that gives Rhys the courage to actually touch him, to work a hand up under his shirt and feel the muscles shifting in the powerful back with each thrust. “I’m going to kill them.” Jack grunts against Rhys’s neck, and it’s only now Rhys realizes that the hand Jack isn’t using to support himself is gripped around the bullet dent on Rhys’s metal arm. “Those pieces of fucking _garbage._ ” 

There’s enough pre-cum dripping from both of them now for the almost-pain to transform into unbearably good friction, and Rhys is arching his back so hard with each thrust that it hurts. There’s no telling how long it takes for him to come, but when he does he’s looking at Jack’s hand curled tightly around the metal of his arm, feeling the hot wet breaths against his skin. He cries out wordlessly, thighs tensing, and then he’s gone. Bones like jelly and mind abuzz. 

Jack keeps thrusting, thrusting into the slick mess on Rhys’s belly until he’s coming too, sinking his teeth into Rhys’s throat with an animalistic grunt. His hips stutter a few more times, and with each he lets out another growl, until finally the noises mingle lowly with his ragged pants and he collapses on top of Rhys. 

And they just— lay there like that, for a while. For much longer than Rhys would expect. Jack’s face is buried in his hair, which he doesn’t need to look at to know is a mess. He closes his eyes and lets his breathing even out, feels the heat of Jack on top and the cold of the metal beneath. Lets his hand slip out of Jack’s shirt to flop on the table. 

He was shot today. He has to remind himself, because this seems to have pretty much wiped everything else from his mind. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: bros being bros, and Jack being Jack.

Rhys finds it hard to believe that Jack hasn’t watched the video feed from his ECHO eye yet. Which can only mean that he has and that there’s no way to tell _when_ he’s doing it, which is incredibly unnerving. Although really, what had he expected? A nice big notice to pop up on ECHOnet anytime Jack wanted to spy on him?

He’s not going to _ask_ Handsome Jack about it of course. It’s not like he’s an approachable guy, mutual orgasms or no. So he’s been left with extreme paranoia the last few days, hurrying through trips to the toilet, avoiding looking at himself in the shower. And masturbation, well, that wasn’t something he was even going to consider. Untimely erections would just have to sit and suffer. The idea that he’s sitting somewhere eating popcorn and laughing at Rhys is entirely too in-character to disregard.

There’s the possibility that Jack might be watching him at any given time, and then you add on the unlikeliness that Jack was 100% truthful about the extent of the new software, and Rhys’s jumpiness is more than justified. He’s learned to trust Jack, but he doesn’t really _trust_ him, per se.

So he’s standing barefoot in the kitchen at 1am on Saturday, pouring a bowl of overly sugared cereal when Vaughn walks in and scares the absolute _shit_ out of him just by opening the fridge door. He actually jumps a little, accidentally catapulting his spoon across the kitchen with a clang even as he realizes his mistake and yells a string of curses. They’ve lived together in this same two-bedroom apartment for three years now, on one of the several stations floating near Helios that were built for Hyperion employee housing and entertainment.

Vaughn raises both eyebrows at him, illuminated by the dim light of the fridge sans glasses and with a day’s stubble encroaching on his usual goatee. “Uh. You okay there, dude?”

Rhys nods his head vigorously in embarrassment, bending to grab the rogue spoon. Maybe Jack wasn’t so wrong about his survival instincts, considering he hadn’t noticed his own roommate come into the kitchen behind him. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just— thought you were asleep.”

Vaughn shuts the fridge with his knee, bottle of weird/gross vegetable juice in hand. Possibly the secret to his freakish abs? Rhys catalogues it as a possibility. “Uhuh, yeah. Because, y’know, I’m never awake at one in the morning on the weekend playing games. I’m always in bed promptly at 8 like some old fogie, right?”

Rhys rolls his eyes, scooping up his bowl and walking around the counter to plop down on the couch. It’s an open floor plan, so he watches Vaughn fuss with his drink. “Sorry if I don’t have your sleeping habits memorized dude, work has been… Kinda nuts.” He says around a mouthful of cereal. With all the extra hours at work and the projects he brings home it’s no exaggeration. Sure, he still sees Vaughn and occasionally Yvette on weekends, but he’s tired enough from working all week that he’d usually be in bed by now anyways. Only the stress from this whole Jack situation has him up currently (the most recent Jack situation, really, because there’s always a ‘Jack situation’ it seems.)

“Yeah, about that.” Vaughn says, pulling bread and a jumbo jar of peanut butter from his side of the pantry, “you haven’t really talked much about that lately. You used to tell us all kinds of stories at lunch, like ‘oh Jack did this, Jack said that.’ But you’ve been quiet all week, so… Is everything, like… Okay?” The forced casualness of Vaughn’s tone is obvious. Rhys frowns and turns to slump against one soft arm-rest, kicking his feet up on the other and stirring his cereal thoughtfully.

“Things are… Fine? I mean, really it’s going well. A lot better than I ever expected.” He half-shrugs to himself, staring at the check of Hyperion logos on his pajama pants, bright yellow even in the dim light from Elpis that filters through the window. “I just can’t talk about work as much now because I’m involved in stuff that’s—stuff that’s _actually_ important. Secret stuff.”

Vaughn walks with plate in hand to sink into the arm chair across from Rhys, sets his glass down on a side-table, next to a mini holo-picture of the three of them—Rhys, Vaughn, Yvette—all making stupid faces at some bar. “Yeah, okay, that doesn’t explain how antsy you’ve been the last few days.”

The holo-picture rotates. Vaughn, sitting on the side of Rhys’s hospital bed after his implant surgery several years back, both of them giving the thumbs up. Current Vaughn sits next to it obliviously, hair sticking up in tufts and wearing only the dumb division-sign boxers his mom bought him last year with a grey a t-shirt. He rests his knobby elbows on his knees as he bites into his peanut-butter sandwich.

“I have not been _antsy_." Rhys protests, waving his spoon, cheek full of sugary goodness. The day he bought grown-up cereal would be the day he ate the recommended daily amount of vegetables. AKA, never.

“Yeah, uh-huh. When I grabbed you by the shoulder in the hall the other day you threw a coffee cup against the wall.”

“I _dropped_ it, it was slippery. And… Hot.”

“Mhmm. Sure. Alright then, are you going to finally tell me about _that_ at least?” Vaughn says, pointing at Rhys.

He looks at Vaughn for a moment in confusion before looking down at himself, but nope, normal Rhys as far as he can tell. He frowns, throwing up the hand that isn’t holding cereal. “Okay, I give up. Talk about _what_?”

“’Whadda fug happensho yerarm?!” Vaughn exclaims around a very very large bite. He’s unintelligible when he eats peanut butter, Rhys has told him this sooo many times. And yet, it persists.

Rhys holds a hand to his ear. “Oh I’m sorry molasses mouth, what was that?”

Vaughn grunts in frustration, holding up a finger as he finishes chewing and swallows. “I _asked_ what happened to your arm? There’s like, a crater in your dumb robot arm. So _what happened._?”

Rhys closes his eyes. Duh. Of course Vaughn noticed the bullet hole, it’s pretty damn obvious. Yvette is always oblivious to changes in peoples’ appearances but Vaughn, Vaughn probably saw it day one and avoided asking in front of other people. He sighs, setting his bowl on the end table. “It’s— Look, it’s nothing okay? I maybe-kind-of-accidentally got shot.”

Vaughn stares at him, dumbfounded. “You- What do you mean you _accidentally_ got shot?”

“This guy was trying to shoot Jack” Rhys explains calmly, “and he misfired. Hit my arm. It’s really not a big deal, I promise you.”

“Jesus Christ, first the mystery hickeys and now you’re getting shot without telling me.”

Rhys blanches, hand moving to his throat self-consciously. Right.

“Oh yeah, trust me, I noticed. You usually can’t wait to brag to me about your conquests so I’m assuming it’s something shameful.”

Rhys groans, slumping down further into the couch and covering his face. “It’s not what you think,” he starts, talking through his hands, but Vaughn interrupts him.

“Look, I don’t need to know. I just— Rhys, I’m worried about you. If this job is too much…” He trails off.

Rhys looks over at Vaughn. The sincerity on his face twists his stomach. “I’m telling you, everything is fine.” He says quietly, pulling himself into a sitting position. “Things are weird but— I like it? I think?”

Vaughn is still staring at him, clearly unconvinced. “I promise you, _I’m okay_.” Rhys says, spreading out his hands. He really really doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, so he adds jokingly “Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining when I got you that promotion last month.”

There’s a long moment of silence and then Vaughn smiles, hesitant but warm. “Yeah, okay. You got me there.” He stands, picking up his cup and empty plate. “Well I’m turning in for the night, but… Listen, if you need to talk, I’m here.”

Rhys smiles. “Cheesy dude, but thanks. ‘Night.” He watches Vaughn pad down the hallway to his room before sighing and flopping back against the couch.

As if he could begin to tell Vaughn about his confusing hook-ups with Jack, or the spy software that’s been stuck in his brain. But the sentiment— it’s enough to calm his nerves, just a little.

 

* * *

 

“ _Pandora_ .” Rhys says in disbelief. “You’re seriously going down to Pandora? That seems—“ He stops before he can say ‘really dangerous and stupid,’ because Jack is making the  _I really don’t care about your opinion_ face as he inspects a silver pistol. Jack chose to start the workday by taking Rhys down to his private shooting range, so they’re surrounded by very dangerous, very expensive weapons.

“God kid, calm down. It’s just for a week or two. Getting one of the new base camps established.” Jack frowns at the pistol before placing it back on the rack, running his fingertips thoughtfully over a rifle underneath it. “Huh, I thought I left this one on Elpis.”

“Oookay,” Rhys says, crossing his arms and glancing with distaste at what seems to be a large yellow rocket launcher hanging over the entrance to the range. “And why can’t someone else handle that? You’ve delegated camp set-up for every other base. I don’t think CEOs usually get involved in this kind of thing.”

Jack steps back to better survey the racks-upon-racks of weaponry, raising a finger in Rhys’s direction. “Okay, first of all, I think I know more about being a successful CEO than you. Secondly, I’ve always been a bit more hands on, because if you let other people handle things, it’s pretty likely they’ll fuck it all up.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Thirdly, this camp is _more important_ than the others. And if everything goes well down there, I might consider filling you in on what I’m really up to when I get back.”

Oh. That’s the first indication Jack’s given that he has any intention of clueing Rhys in on his real plans for Pandora. With the ability to spy on Rhys whenever he wants, Rhys supposes it takes a bit of the risk out of telling him. It still gives him a rush of excitement regardless, that heady feeling of importance that he’s getting maybe a teensy bit addicted to. Jack picks up a revolver from the rack next to him, and then stands on his tip-toes to grab a pistol from overhead with his free hand.

Rhys tries to be casual. “Right, of course. I just… I know you can handle yourself and everything, but” Jack raises a brow at him but he pushes through, “it’s just, we still don’t know who hired Chet. And there’s a good chance it was somebody on Pandora since that’s where you, uh.” He clears his throat awkwardly.

“What, where I pissed a whole lot of people off, or where I _died_?” Jack asks wryly, placing the pistol back in its place. “Thanks for the reminder! Because I truly forgot where it was I had a hole blown in my frickin’ _sternum_.” Rhys shrugs apologetically and Jack turns to him, gesturing broadly with the revolver. “Look sugar, there is _always_ someone or other out to kill me.” He begins walking towards the mouth of the target range, and Rhys follows. “Do I want to know what bastard it was this time so that I can rip their stupid head off? Yeah, duh! But that’s not gonna stop me from doing what needs doing.” They halt at the stall behind the red line denoting where a shooter should stand, bullet-proof glass on either side.

Rhys watches with interest as Jack inspects the revolver with deft movements. “So what, the scum on Pandora hate me. They think I’m some kind of monster, but _they’re_ the murderers.” That deep bubbling anger is back in Jack’s eyes. Rhys gets the impression he’s mentioning a specific event, not even his own death in the vault, but he knows better than to ask. Asking Handsome Jack questions he doesn’t want to answer is a good way to get shot.

It’s clear Jack knows his way around a gun, and there’s something impressive about his long dexterous fingers as they load each chamber quickly. He spins the well-oiled cylinder with a whizz, slapping it shut with a broad palm. “I was just bringing civilization to that hellhole. I was just bringing _order_. Oh wah, a few bandits have to die for the greater good? Who fucking cares.” He growls the last part darkly before spinning suddenly; shooting the man-shaped target that hangs at the other end of the range. Rhys ducks in surprise, slapping his hands over his ears. Jack empties all eight chambers before turning with a grin. Behind him, the target smokes with perfect groupings from the acid rounds of the revolver, five shots in the head, three in the crotch. “Hey, ya see that? That’s what I’m gonna do to every last vault hunter, every last peon that decides to get in my way.”

Rhys nods hesitantly, straightening up and crossing his arms in an attempt to seem unfazed. His left hand brushes over the bullet-hole in his arm’s façade self-conciously. “Well, seems effective anyways.”

Jack slaps him on the shoulder before turning to re-load the gun. “Mhm. Which is why you’re going to start carrying this gun, every day, from here on out.”

Rhys sticks his hands up in protest. “Woah-woah-woah. What? I’m not really into the whole. Killing people thing?” Ethics of working for Hyperion aside, Rhys doesn’t really consider himself a bad guy. Definitely not a violent one, anyways.

“Come on kiddo, don’t be such a wuss,” Jack says, flicking the newly filled cylinder shut with ease. “I’m going to be gone, two weeks tops, but still. You’re going to be handling all the day-to-day stuff for me while I’m down there, which I’m stupidly trusting you not to _fuck up_ by the way, and yeah, you’ll probably be fine. But there might be times in the future where I need to take you with me on these little trips, and I’d prefer you be carrying this, and be at least somewhat competent with it.”

Again it’s the promise of importance, of usefulness to Jack that gets Rhys to acquiesce.

“Just for self-defense,” Jack insists, pressing the revolver into his palm. It gleams lustrously under the fluorescent lights, not a heavy gun, but solid. Now that he gets a closer look at it he realizes just how _nice_ it is, definitely not any model that Hyperion mass-produces or even sells. The metal is a deep charcoal; almost black, swirled with purple like the sheen on an oil slick. The indents on the cylinder glow softly green, apparently to indicate the added corrosive elemental damage. And finally, the Hyperion logo is displayed in mother-of-pearl inlay on the grip, delicate and pale. Really, the air of craftsmanship about the thing is a little on the ridiculous side for something expressly designed to destroy.

Rhys stares at it a moment longer, considering, feeling the smooth metal against his skin. Going back to Pandora… He had trusted a seemingly hostile Jack, all for a chance at getting _off_ that planet. Still doesn’t know what became of Fiona or Sasha, because he had genuinely wanted back on Helios _that badly_. If Jack’s being serious then this gun represents going back there, eventually. Except this time it would be with Jack. This time, he would be in control.

He nods reluctantly. “Yeah, okay.” He says, attempting a smile. Jack slaps him on the back.

“Hey, atta boy! Now show me what you can do.” He kicks the button that resets the target, starting to back up as Rhys moves uncertainly into what he thinks _might be_ a shooting stance, only to have Jack immediately stop him by stepping back over and pushing his arm down firmly. “Oh jesus, nuh-uh-uh. Wow. I mean, I know you don’t really know guns but that’s, just… No.”

He slides fluidly behind Rhys and actually wraps his arms around him so that he can reposition his limbs in turn, pulling his arm straighter and moving his off-hand up to brace for recoil. “Look, you can fire one-handed from the hip like some cowboy later, but for now let’s focus on actually hitting something.” Rhys blinks in surprise. He can feel the tips of his ears heating up.

“Well it’s not like learning to murder people has been high on my priority list,” he grumbles defensively, flinching as Jack kicks his feet a bit further apart.

“Can it with the sass,” Jack says before his voice goes low. “You’re gonna like this more than you think, kitten. You’ve got power there in your hands. Now, safety off.” Rhys obeys, remembering where he’d seen Jack flick it off earlier. Jack re-positions his arms again. “Good. Now cock it. Hammer clicks twice, you’ll know it’s ready to shoot.” Rhys obeys, swallowing as Jack’s chest presses to his back.

Jack practically purrs into his ear. “Now you line up the shot. And no using your ECHOeye, you need to learn properly if that thing ever goes dark. Do you see the sight at the end of the barrel?” Rhys nods his head. Jack’s sharp chin presses into his shoulder as he looks down the barrel of the gun for himself. “Line that up with where you want the bullet to go. Keep in in the middle of that little valley on the rear sight, the one closest to you.” Rhys does so, wishing his heart didn’t still hammer like this whenever Jack gets close. Especially with a loaded weapon in his hands. He manages to collect himself a bit by focusing, focusing on the point at the end of the barrel.

“Now, when I say shoot, you’re gonna inhale, hold it, and then squeeze the trigger. Gently. And you’re going to be ready for the recoil, although this baby shouldn’t have too much.”

“Okay,” Rhys says, mustering a surprising amount of confidence. Joints less stiff as the warmth of Jack seeps through his clothes. He’s focusing as intently as he can, back to that need to impress. To matter.

“Good.” Jack takes his hands from Rhys’s, still pressed to his back but moving his hands to rest on Rhys’s hips instead. It seems like an eternity before he leans in, purrs into Rhys’s ear. “Shoot.”

Rhys holds his breath, gently rocks back the trigger. Bang, it goes off, and he handles the recoil just fine. He can feel Jack’s hips pressed against his ass as he exhales, looking anxiously down the range.

The bullet smolders where it’s lodged, right in the chest. Not a perfect bulls-eye, but close enough to the circle denoting the heart that he feels a surge of satisfaction.

Jack squeezes his hip as he lowers the gun, maybe just a little shaky. “High cheekbones and a good shot” Jack mutters. “Just my type.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeere it is. Thanks again for all the comments/kudos, you guys have been so sweet and supportive @_@

Rhys handles the small-scale stuff while Jack’s gone, and after a week it’s all going pretty damn well. Sure, he’s not making any major actual CEO-level decisions— those all get sent to Jack through the ECHOnet, of course— but Rhys still keeps Helios running pretty smoothly, all things considered. Even gets to make a few minor calls, picking people to head up the less secretive projects, getting on top of a few upper-level managers whose departments are slacking.

It’s not that he’s “in-charge,” exactly, he’s just representing the guy who _is_. But that’s a kind of power of its own, and underlings and execs alike are treating him with a level of respect that he is most certainly not used to (but could definitely see himself _getting_ used to.)

He’s the gatekeeper to Jack at the moment, after all. Jack had made it expressly clear that Rhys should field all questions and inquiries, forwarding only the most important stuff down to the CEO while he was on Pandora. It’s humbling to the higher-ups at Hyperion, having Jack’s PA dictating whether their questions are as important as they always _think_ they are.

Really, it’s way more responsibility than he ever would have expected Jack to hand him.

It’s the first Friday since Jack’s departure and Rhys is at Lisa’s workshop currently, about to have a checkup that Jack insisted on (his exact words were something like, “either you get that hunk of metal checked out regularly or I’m going to rip it off myself. If you’re going to let the damn thing break I might as well get the pleasure of doing it.”)

Lisa walks in briskly, noting something down on an ECHO device as she threads between workbenches with ease. She’s wearing what Rhys can only describe as… Dress over-alls? They’re made from some stiff black material, cut at odd angles and threaded with silver. The lab coat overtop is a ridiculous contrast. She doesn’t even look up until she reaches the bench on which Rhys is perched, tucking her frizzy gray hair behind her ear efficiently.

“Hey Lisa.” Rhys says, shrugging out of his charcoal vest as she unrolls a pouch of tools.

“Mhm,” she says, eyeing him for a moment. “I see Jack’s making you an attack dog after all.”

Rhys looks down at his new revolver, tucked neatly into the shoulder holster Jack had given him right before boarding his ship. Black skagskin, a good match for Rhys’s favorite pair of boots, which _has_ to be coincidence.

“Oh, right. No no, it’s not like that. Just for self-defense.” He attempts a smile, loosening the strap before pulling the entirety of the holster over his head to set aside. In all honesty, the thing still makes him uncomfortable, although he’s been practicing his shooting in Jack’s range each day before work. The fact that he’s one of the select non-soldier Hyperion employees with clearance to carry a weapon on Helios is kind of a big deal, after all. Not learning to shoot well would just be letting Jack down.

Lisa shrugs her shoulders loosely, exchanging some of the bit sizes on her clean silver tools after a perfunctory glance at Rhys’s arm. She never seems concerned about getting grease or dirt on herself, but her tools are absolutely pristine. “If you say so. Shirt off, please.”

Rhys un-tucks his shirt awkwardly, unbuttoning it quickly to set aside along with his tie. Lisa sits on a rolling stool and moves in, beginning by pulling his arm through a range of motions while listening to his joints thoughtfully. “Sounds good.” She says, reaching for her tool kit. “Now we’ll open her up and take a good look. Just did the basic repairs last time, but I’d like to check the integrity of your parts now considering they’re mostly original.”

“Sounds good,” Rhys says, watching her work. It’s strange, seeing someone taking him apart. He’s had his arm long enough that it truly feels like a part of him. Maybe that’s the real reason he hasn’t had that bullet-ding removed yet- it’s almost like a scar in his mind. An hour seems to stretch into forever as Lisa takes apart complex mechanisms only to reassemble them, mostly in silence. She doesn’t really have a bedside manner to speak of, so Rhys finally attempts some form of conversation that isn’t about the inner working of his arm.

“Sooo, head of cybernetics. Why are you the one Jack has working on my arm? I mean, the mechanical aspects of it could be handled by anyone in robotics right?”

She snorts in response, fingers effortlessly finding the hidden catch to pop off another of his arm’s yellow plates. “I volunteered once to run point on some enhancements for his man Willhelm. I have a background in robotics design, so I’m handy with tools. Ever since then he had me do all the work on Willhelm, even after I became head of cybernetics R&D. Saw him go from mostly man to mostly machine. Guess after that Jack even trusts me enough to do grunt work on _you._ ”

Rhys’s brow knits as he watches Lisa fiddle with the wires and cables inside the hull of his palm. “What do you mean ‘even’?”

She waves the end of a screwdriver in the air. “Let’s just say that when you two were here last I popped back in to get a spanner I’d left. Saw some things I now cannot un-see.”

The color drains from Rhys’s face. He scratches where his flesh meets the metal of his arm, an old nervous tic. Lisa looks up in annoyance at the slight jostling of her work. “You… Saw… That?”

“It’s no wonder Jack wouldn’t trust just any mechanic with you,” is her only reply, going back to tug at the wire that essentially functions as his thumb’s metacarpal, “although I’d appreciate it if you two didn’t mess around in my shop next time.”

Rhys squeezes his eyes closed. Great. He has a feeling Jack won’t exactly be pleased with someone else knowing about… Whatever the heck was (is?) going on between them. “Right, um, sorry. Won’t happen again. But I’d really appreciate it if you kept that to yourself, maybe?”

Lisa laughs, short and humorless as she starts replacing his plating, apparently satisfied with what she’s seen. “You think I’m stupid enough to gab around about Jack’s new boyfriend?”

It’s Rhys’s turn to laugh now. “Haha, what?” Lisa raises a brow at him as she clicks the last of his plates into place. “No, it’s not… Like that. We’re not.” He clears his throat, flexing his arm as Lisa releases her hold on it and stands. Rhys has no illusions about the things that have happened with Jack. The guy gets bored easily, and likes messing with Rhys’s head. That’s all it is. Rhys has heard rumors about a few of Jack’s exes, and none of them sound, well, anything like him. Rhys is surprised that Jack’s had _any_ kind of past human relationships, although when you exude charm like that he supposes it’s bound to happen.

“Frankly, I don’t give a crap either way,” Lisa says with a hand on her hip, leaning against a workbench with filthy oil rag in hand. She watches the movements of Rhys’s arm with satisfaction. “I just want peace and quiet, and maybe a bigger R&D budget. But kid, I’ll tell you this. Be careful with Jack. I’m sure being close to genius is all very fascinating for you, but he prefers chewing up _people_ to steak.”

Rhys looks down at his lap soberly, rubbing the dent in his arm with the fingers of his “real” hand. He knows that being close to Jack in any capacity is a big risk. But maybe that’s why it’s so exhilarating. Like riding lightning. “I’m— More than aware. But thanks.”

Lisa’s packing up her kit, which Rhys takes to mean she’s done, so he’s sliding his arm into the sleeve of his shirt when the door whooshes open. He looks up startled as a broad-shouldered man of about thirty strides in.

His hand goes behind him instinctually, grasping at the holster of his revolver.

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” the man says with an apologetic but charming smile. His accent is thick, a bit posh. “You’re— Rhys, right?” His eyes flash to Rhys’s robotic arm. “Yeah, dumb question, right. Jack’s secretary told me you were down here, and I have some things that really need signed off on before the end of the day. If you have a minute, that is?”

Rhys exhales in relief, fingers leaving the pistol as he goes back to shrugging his shirt on the rest of the way, eager to cover up now that he knows it isn’t some kind of assassin. The guy’s handsome, which somehow adds to the embarrassment of being caught shirtless. He’s clearly fairly fit underneath the black hex-patterned shirt and red blazer, his blond hair buzzed on the sides with a neatly trimmed beard to match. Dark, friendly looking eyes are watching Rhys’s every movement with patience.

“Oh, yeah you’re fine, just let me, um.” He hops down from the work-bench, buttoning his shirt quickly before replacing his holster and tightening it, throwing his vest on over-top. “So what can I help you with?” He asks, watching Lisa fuss over her tools with a cleaning rag.

“Right, well,” the guy steps forward fluidly, pulling out an ECHO device and tapping rapidly on it. “There are just a few propositions for budget allocations here. Adjustments to make up for the increased expenditures on Pandora. Normally Handsome Jack would approve these, but” he steps forward, offering the device to Rhys with a friendly smile, “my boss told me I should bring them to you, instead. I’m Cyrus, by the way. Accounting.”

Rhys returns the smile, taking the ECHO. It’s nice to interact with a Hyperion employee that doesn’t seem bitter about having to report to him in Jack’s absence. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rhys. Here, I’ll take a look at this while we walk if you don’t mind. Don’t want to take up anymore of Lisa here’s time.”

Lisa waves him away dismissively, walking over to peer at a computer array in the corner. “Yeah. Don’t break the thing again.”

“I’ll do my best,” Rhys throws back, walking through the door with Cyrus at his side. The guy exudes calm confidence, but not in the typical Hyperion douche way. No attempts at small talk, just companionable silence as Rhys fiddles with the ECHO device as they walk. He transmits the data over ECHOnet to his own built-in interface before handing it back to Cyrus. They step into an elevator just as Rhys’s palm glows to life, projecting the spreadsheet in the air before him.

“Wow,” Cyrus says with a look of genuine fascination, “that’s impressive.”

Rhys can’t help but grin at the compliment, running the fingertips of his freehand back through his hair as if preening. If there’s one thing he’s proud of, it’s his tech. “Yeah, I used to be in data-mining. This thing gave me a bit of a leg up, I guess.” He scrolls through the figures rapidly. He’s quick with these kinds of things, and he imagines that’s part of his usefulness to Jack.

Cyrus crosses his arms behind his back, watching raptly. “I’d imagine. Not trying to be nosy, but how is it someone goes from data-mining to Handsome Jack’s inner fold?”

Rhys laughs. It’s more at the notion that he’s in Jack’s ‘inner fold’ than anything, but he realizes that’s how it must look to everyone else at the moment. Perceived power is quite the currency here. “It’s a long story. Like, a really long story. I guess you could say I was slightly helpful in Jack coming back, though.” He curls his fingers into his palm and the display flicks off. The lift is almost to the floor he needs, thank god, because the meeting Jack asked him to sit in on starts in ten minutes. “All of those figures look fine. They match up with the areas we— I mean Jack— wanted to increase or cut.”

Cyrus nods gratefully as the lift comes to a stop. “Perfect. Sorry to waste your time with this, I know it’s formality more than anything having the big important people sign off on these things. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.” He offers his hand to shake and Rhys does so, surprised that Cyrus isn’t fazed at shaking his metal hand.

“No, it’s totally fine. Sorry you had to go on a hunt for me.” Rhys says, eyes flicking down to where Cyrus squeezes his hand before letting go.

He steps off the elevator, and Cyrus throws him one more smile before hitting the button for his own department. “Not at all. I’d love to hear that story next time, though. You seem like an interesting guy.”

Rhys blushes slightly and nods as the lift doors slide shut. He’s not that used to people being interested in what he has to say, really. In his old job he’d had to fight tooth and nail for any scrap of recognition.

He shrugs it off and walks to yet another thrilling meeting about profit margins and risk analysis for operations on Pandora. He’s got a lot to do today.

 

* * *

 

Right, so, it’s been well over a week since Jack jammed that new software into his head. Rhys has more-or-less forgotten about it, at least in the sense of conscious thought. It’s surprising how quickly he adjusted to the idea, considering it had had him a nervous wreck the first few days, but being more-or-less in charge of Helios this week has kept his mind pretty busy.

So, yes, the masturbation embargo has been lifted.. It’s not like he can go forever without touching himself. He’s a grown man with a hell of a lot of tension in his life, after all.

Currently Rhys is sprawled in bed after his long day at work, about halfway through a relaxing jerk-off session. He kind of just collapsed naked into his sheets after a nice hot shower, and finding himself hard, there was nothing to do but get himself a much deserved orgasm.

He watches through drooping lids as his hand stroke up and down, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the metal slatted blinds. Floating in space means perpetual night, which Rhys kind of loves. He can feel tension melting off his shoulders in waves with each stroke, not thinking of anything in particular. Flashes of images he’s seen in porn, a few memories of his last encounter with Jack, then the shooting range. He’s in the middle of a particularly obscene groan when a familiar voice pierces the silence of his room.

“Jesus cupcake, slow it down. You jerk off like a teenager.”

Rhys freezes, scrambling to sit up against the headboard, pulling a blanket over his lap. His eyes dart back and forth in the darkness, searching the shadows of his room. “Who—“

“Oh come on, you know who it is,” the voice teases. “Your IQ’s gotta be, like, almost average at least.” Only now, with Rhys alert and focused, does he realize he can’t pinpoint what direction the voice is coming from. Almost like it’s coming from everywhere... Or from his own head.

“What the fuck?” He breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s like deja-vu.

“Alright, let’s nip this in the bud. Because what you were doing before was way more entertaining than all the questions you’re about to ask. No, you’re not crazy. Yes, this is Jack. Yes, my voice is in your head. Yes, I _may_ have put a teensy-weensy little bit of extra software on the data drive. No, your penis is not bigger than average.”

Rhys’s eyebrows knit together. “Wait. You— Put yourself in my _head_ again?”

The voice in his brain laughs. “Oh my god, no. Are you dumb? I thought we just established you’re not dumb. I just had the nerds in cybernetics work on something so that when I talk to you over the ECHOnet, it filters directly into that pretty little head instead of speakers. Also, without notifying you. Your brain thinks your ears are hearing me, but they’re not, really. Just a bunch of signals firing back and forth across your lobes in the same pattern as if you _were._ Pretty cool, right?”

Rhys’s face was already flushed hot from his interrupted self-ministrations, but now it’s replaced with the heat of anger. “Fuck you, Jack!” He already hates that he’s having a conversation with thin air all over again. “You had no right— You didn’t _ask me._ And then you used my eye to spy on me randomly? You said it would be for emergencies, this is—“

“Ohhh my god, this is getting so much less fun already. What, this is an invasion of your privacy or something? Calm down, sugar tits, and think about this for a minute. You _knew_ I was putting the spyware in, correct?”

Rhys is fuming, still clutching the blankets to his chest and purposefully staring into the nothingness of a shadow by his dresser.

“W _e_ ll, how is it weird to give myself a direct line to you in addition? Like, would you prefer I not tell you when I’m checking in? Not that I’ve told you the last few times I did it, but…”

Rhys’s arms tighten where he’s crossed them on his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. You were watching me-“

“Oh, like I knew you’d be diddling yourself at this exact time tonight. Or do you think I’m tuned in to Rhys-O-Vision 24/7? I was just _bored_ after another long day of bossing idiots around. Just thought I’d make sure you hadn’t somehow burned Helios to the ground in my absence, or gotten yourself shot, or some spectacular combination of the two.”

Well… Okay, true. Thinking Jack’s been watching him constantly is ridiculous. The man is down on Pandora, working on his pet project at the moment. And, like it or not, Rhys _had_ consented to the spyware. But it was— Jack was messing with something that was _part_ of him. Not like downloading a program on his computer without asking. He had literally altered Rhys _himself,_ the way his cybernetics are bonded to his conscious.

He finally sighs. “Well… Fine. But I swear to god, if this isn’t the only thing you added on—“

“Oh, you’ll _what,_ kiddo? After everything I’ve done for you you’re really gonna bitch about a few enhancements? Yeah, right.” Rhys sags back against the headboard, defeated. Jack’s right, there isn’t actually anything he can _do_. He shares an office with the CEO, gets to make a few actual decisions, gets to see all the behind-the-scenes dealings at Hyperion instead of sitting cooped up in a cubicle all day slicing data. Not to mention the paycheck— he can seriously afford a better apartment now, one on his own if he wanted.

He sits there a minute, pondering the strange rollercoaster that has been his life this year, when Jack’s voice returns, smooth and insistent. “Okay, so, ya done moping now? Because I bet getting back to touching yourself would brighten your day just a leeeetle bit.”

Rhys feels himself blushing, remembering that Jack had watched him, ah, pleasuring himself a few minutes ago. At least he can’t see how red his face must be right now, only what his ECHOeye looks at, which he keeps obstinately on the wall ahead.

“What, you gonna ignore me? C’mon sweetcheeks, it’s been a long day. I could use a little show.” It’s annoying how real Jack’s voice is as it singsongs the words. Rhys’s brain literally interprets it as coming from outside himself, like it’s reverberating in his eardrums. And, y’know, knowing it’s the real thing now doesn’t help.

“I’m not fucking… Jerking off while you watch through my own _eye_ ” he protests.

“Oh, aren’t you? Huh, okay. Fine. Guess this is going to be a one-sided party, then.” Rhys hears the distinct sound of a zipper, the clink of a belt. He can’t help but ask. “Wait, you’re not...?”

Jack grunts. “Well _duh_. This stress ain’t gonna relieve itself.” Rhys swallows, unable to stop himself from picturing Jack sitting in a private tent on Pandora, watching Rhys’s every move through a screen with his hand down his pants. His legs are probably hanging open, sunk low in his chair. Sweaty and disheveled from an active day in the heat.

Rhys shifts a bit, annoyed at the nudge of arousal he feels at the image. It doesn’t help that he had just been thinking of Jack rutting against him in Lisa’s workshop when he’d decided to surprise him.

“C’mon, kid,” Jack whispers in the way that makes Rhys shiver unfailingly, sweetness laced with arsenic. “Let me have a look at you.”

Possibilities run through Rhys’s mind. As always, he partially suspects this is a trap, and that Jack will just laugh at him as soon as he looks down. Or, if not, he’ll embarrass himself somehow anyways. But they’ve already gone further than this twice now, right? He’s sucked Jack’s cock for gods’ sake. And the dirtiness of it is undoubtedly making him harder by the minute.

He takes a deep breath before shoving the blanket down to his hips, hand snaking underneath to brush himself. It helps that it’s so dark in here, the moonlight making it all a bit less real.

Finally, he looks down, takes in his own torso thrown into shadow by the moonlight. Jack hmms appreciatively. “Oh, good, _good_ boy,” he says. “Look at you, delicate thing, huh?” Rhys squeezes his knees together at the praise, stroking himself once beneath the blanket.

“Ah-ah-ah. That won’t do. Come on, blanket off. I wanna see what you’re up to under there.” Rhys swallows again. Whatever, Jack’s seen it before. He hesitates before finally pushing the blanket off, looking down the length of his body to where his cock juts in his hand. He has to fight not to shut his eyes, finding it difficult to remember that his own eye is Jack’s window to his room right now.

“That’s the stuff,” comes Jack voice, deep and throaty. “Now tell me, what had you that way when I popped in? Thinking of anything in particular?”

Rhys lets out a small huff, letting himself sink back down so that his pillow props his head up enough to keep watching himself. “Nothing, just— Stuff.”

“’Stuff,’ what is this, middle-school? C’mon, sugar. Details.”

Rhys does have to shut his eyes then, just for a moment as he works up the courage and opens them again, struggling to keep his strokes slow like Jack had said before. It feels— well, it feels really damn good. “Well, one of the things… I was thinking about. At the gun-range, when you had your arms around me?” He can still remember the feeling of Jack’s crotch digging into his ass after that first shot, the obvious erection pressed against him. He’d been so sure, then, that Jack was going to kiss him again. But it hadn’t happened to his disappointment, just more shooting until they’d gone through a small box of bullets, Jack leering at him the entire time like he was naked.

Jack chuckles lowly, but doesn’t speak. Rhys thinks he can hear the slide of skin. He twists his palm around his head for a moment, bucking his hips just slightly. “And, in the workshop, when I was getting my arm fixed.” He has to gulp down a moan. “You on— on top of me.”

The growl this brings out of Jack shakes down through his spine. “Alright, that’s it. Up. You have a mirror? Full-length.” Rhys freezes his movements.

“Well, yeah, in the bathroom. But I really don’t…”

“Rhys, you’ve been so good so far. Do what I say. Get up, now.” Something about the tone makes Rhys obey, clambering out of bed nervously. Knowing Jack is watching is one thing, but having to look at himself in the mirror while it happens? He isn’t crazy about the idea. “You got lube? Grab it.” Again, Rhys obeys without thinking, fumbling in the drawer of his nightstand. He curses when he accidentally knocks over a model of Helios that perches on top, the one his mom bought him when he’d gotten his first job there, but ignores it and finally comes out with a half-full tube. Astro-Gel, or ‘space-age lube for the space-age man” as the text on its side so cheerily proclaimed.

“Now then, mirror. Chop-chop.”

Rhys walks steadily to the private bathroom that adjoins his room, stepping in and closing the door behind him. It’s an old-fashioned hinge-door, real retro appeal, with a full-length mirror embedded in its back. The lights flicker on automatically as soon as he hooks the latch, (paranoid, maybe, but it’s an extra layer of privacy. Further removal from the real world, where Rhys would never even consider doing this.)

The plastic-blend tiles, intended to mimic porcelain, slap coldly on his feet as he turns to stare nervously into the mirror. He’s still for a second, lube in left hand, right hand covering his genitals self-consciously.

Jack clicks his tongue. “C’mon, you want me to punish you? Hand off the goods.”

“And how do you expect to punish me from Pandora?” He retorts flatly, partly to assuage his embarrassment.

The laugh Jack returns is pure evil, dark and low like he’s about to blow a bandit’s head off. “Oh, real _sassy_ now are we? If you want to test me, go ahead. But for now, _hand off_.”

Rhys moves his hand aside reluctantly, taking himself in in the mirror. Flushed face, half-hard dick. Tall and scrawny. Not exactly a picture he wants to flaunt for a guy that dates super-model look-alikes. “Thaaaat’s it,” Jack murmurs. “There’s my favorite little toy. Now, get a little bit of that lube. And touch yourself.”

Rhys obliges, squirting some of the auto-heating gel into his human hand before lowering it to spread on himself hesitantly. This has got to be one of the more embarrassing things he’s done. But his strokes get easier and easier as he listens to Jack’s appreciative rumbles.

“See, I like seeing that face.” Jack says. “I wanna watch it come undone while you think about me. Just _look_ at that sweet little mouth.” Rhys can’t help but let out a small moan. His hand’s picking up a bit of speed, hips thrusting to meet the wet warm tightness. He remembers Jack’s hand on him, efficient, almost disinterested. Like an afterthought to Jack’s own pleasure. He has no idea why that makes his dick jerk in his hand, honestly, but hey, it works.

“Let me ask you something, Rhys.” Jack says, and his voice is actually getting breathy now, the implication that he’s enjoying Rhys’s little debasement almost too much to handle. “Just how much have you been wanting big bad Handsome Jack to fuck you?”

The groan that question elicits from Rhys will be mortifying, tomorrow, when he isn’t loopy from lust and an exhausting day. “So, so badly.” He manages guiltily, having to lean his shoulder on the wall for support.

“Mm. I bet. You wonder why I haven’t done that, yet?”

Rhys nods his head, knowing Jack will see his reflection do it in the mirror. Easier than talking, right now.

“Well, it’s because I’m trying not completely _break_ you. And I bet getting my dick in that tight little ass is going to ruin my self-control.” Rhys chokes down another moan, only a high-pitched whine coming out. “You’re too sweet to use up in one go, baby,” Jack purrs, echoing in his head. “So I was _trying_ to break you in, all nice and gentle. But the way you walk around that office,” here he growls, “I don’t think you’re gonna _let_ me be nice and gentle.”

Rhys chokes back a sob. His face is so hot from the shame of this, and the excitement. “Just… Want you.” He says brokenly, feeling himself getting close.

Even Jack’s perfect voice seems to be losing control, crackling with lust. “Oh, I’ll give it to you honey. As soon as I get back on Helios that ass is _mine._ But right now, I want you to get it good and ready for me.”

Rhys nods dumbly, not fully comprehending what Jack wants until he says it. “Finger yourself, sweetheart. Right now. Don’t you cum until I tell you to. C’mon and show me you’re ready for this.”

He fumbles with the container of lube again, barely managing to squirt some into his metal palm before the tube slips out of his fingers and hits the floor. He could care less right now, as his human hand returns to stroking his dick and a metal finger prods slickly against his hole. It’s been a while since he’s done this to himself, but it’s certainly not the first time.

“Eyes _open_.” Jack growls angrily, and the threat in his voice only spurs Rhys to push his finger in deeper. His eyelids had been sliding shut with the effort of stretching himself, but he pulls them back open obediently. “That’s right. Fuck, just look at yourself, how wrecked you are right now.”

Jack’s right. Rhys’s eyes take in the picture from top to bottom as he gently works another finger into himself, as deep as he can manage with the difficult angle. He looks— hell, wrecked isn’t even close. Destroyed, maybe. The thin, angular features of his face as his lips hang open, his high cheekbones, jutting chin. Amber hair that’s usually slicked back perfectly now hanging in his forehead. His chest and stomach not cut at all, just flat with hints of softness, the pale blue of his tattoo snaking down from his chest to curl over the pale jut of his ribs. And finally, there, his dick dark and leaking in his hand, while his metal arm stretches back between his legs. He looks debauched, thrusting backwards onto his fingers and then forward into his hand. This is what Jack is seeing through his ECHO eye, this image exactly. This is how he looks. And he feels—god, he feels so good.

“God Jack, I’m gonna—“

Jack is breathing raggedly in his head now, clearly doing some touching of his own. “Do it. Do it for me. And tell me who you belong to.”

Rhys cums just as his fingers finally brush against his prostate, sending an unbelievable shock to his dick. “Jack, Jack, Jack.” He cries, unable to keep his eyes open anymore as his climax rocks through him. He’s leaning face first again the mirror by the time it’s done, and over his own panting he hears Jack grunt and curse, obviously reaching an end of his own.

It’s a few moments of heavy breathing for both of them before Jack speaks. “Phew! Thanks for the fun, kiddo. I’ll see you in a few days.” Rhys coughs, grabbing a towel to hurriedly clean himself off, (and the mirror, which is kind of… Dripping, a bit…) He doesn’t know how Jack can go back to casual so quickly, when Rhys immediately progresses to awkwardness.

“Yeah, um, yep! Yep yep!” He thinks his voice actually cracks. Pathetic.

“You’re going to keep me entertained when I’m down here again, at least,” Jack yawns. There’s a creak, like someone climbing into a cot.

Rhys stops cleaning himself for a moment, pointedly avoiding looking at himself. “What, like this, or do you mean…”

Jack chuckles. “Yup, you’re coming down to Pandora on the next trip. Big things are afoot, kitten. Now clean up that mess and go to bed.”

Just like that, Jack’s voice is gone. There’s no way to know that he’s turned of the feed to Rhys’s eye, of course, so just to be safe he looks up at the ceiling while he cleans himself.

Weird. His life is so, so weird.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a pain to write for whatever reason? So if it's too off-kilter I apologize.
> 
> Anyways, still feel like the plot is kind of dragging, but I promise, stuff's in the works!

Jack comes back on Thursday.

Rhys is waiting for him outside the private hangar when the ship docks, of course. He’d helped make all the preparations for Jack’s arrival— double-checking hangar integrity, data spreads summarizing activities for the past two weeks, a plate of heavily-cheesed nachos waiting on his desk. Personal assistant was perhaps not the best title for him at this point, but he’s certainly retained some of those responsibilities.

He watches through a mosaic of clear orange hexagons as Jack talks to a group of employees, the plastic window’s rippling distortion twisting their faces. Some in lab-coats, some in suits. They’ve gone through the decompression chamber and just sort of stopped by the exit, as far as he can tell, listening to a gesticulating Jack.

Anxiety is definitely mounting in his stomach the longer he waits. He knows that he’s done a damn good job of babysitting Hyperion in Jack’s absence, that’s not it. He had gotten used to seeing Jack nearly every day for the past several months, and yet in the space of two weeks he feels like he’s completely forgotten how to interact with the man. But maybe that’s to be expected when your boss decides to call you up through your neural-implants and then watch you jack-off via your own eye.

Jack’s eyes lock on his through the window, his head perfectly framed in one of the window’s hexagonal facets. Rhys’s stomach flips. He manages to raise his metal hand, waving it in shy greeting.

The people around Jack are still talking; all focused on each other, but for a beat Jack is just watching Rhys through the orange window. Finally, he grins, big and wide.  
Rhys can’t help but tentatively smile back, and Jack winks before turning back to one of the women beside him.

It’s another five minutes before Jack strides through the door to meet Rhys, the others filing out with him. “Kiddo!” He exclaims, draping an arm loosely around Rhys’s shoulders to pull him along down the hallway. Rhys is struck by his smell, cologne overpowered by something distinctly _Pandoran_ , blazing sun and baked earth. “How’s it been? Looks like the place didn’t get blown up, so, ya know, kudos on that one.”

“Good,” Rhys manages, feeling a bit of anticipatory pride when he thinks about Jack reading his reports later. Seeing just how well he handled things. “And Pandora?”

Rhys is grateful when Jack drops the arm form his shoulders. “Fantastic.” He says, eyes sliding to meet Rhys’s. His smirk is so smug that Rhys thinks the mask is going to crack. “And we’ll talk more about the specifics of that after— oh, fuck.” Jack stops dead in his tracks. “I keep forgetting. You got a suit? Like, not some of your hipster bullshit, something actually nice?”

Rhys manages to swing around and stop as well, brow already wrinkling. “Yeaaaah.”

“Good. Dinner at 8, that fancy-pants place on sub-station two.” Jack says with a wave of his hand, resuming his pace with Rhys following. “Meant to have Cheryl get your measurements and order you something to be safe, but y’know, busy. I don’t know that I trust your fashion sense.” Jack eyes the blue skinny-tie Rhys happens to be wearing today, which is tucked into his pants as usual for mobility.

Rhys quirks a brow. He knows better than to think this is some kind of date, but Jack _is_ talking about having dinner at a really classy restaurant on one of the nearby residential stations. And dressing him for the occasion, apparently. “I have suits,” he says slowly and maybe just a little defensively. “Nice suits, thank you very much. And…” He gestures downwards, “tucking my tie in keeps it out of the way.”

“Yeah. Mhm.” Jack says dismissively, glancing down at some ECHO activity on his wristband. “But listen, 8PM. Don’t be late, don’t wear garbage.” They stop in front of an elevator, and Jack thumbs the call button, grinning at Rhys. “We’re celebrating, sugar.”

“Celebrating _what_ exactly?” The door slides open and they step in, ignoring the peons in the corner who crowd as far away from Jack as possible.

“ _Duh,_ Pandora. Profits are great, projected to be even better, yadda yadda. I usually don’t go to these dumb functions, but.” He rolls his shoulders smugly, crossing his arms. “It _is_ in my honor.”

Ah. Business dinner. That makes more sense than Jack asking him… Out… To Eat. Like, alone.

The nerds sidle off at the next floor. Jack trips one on the way out.

 

* * *

 

Seeing Jack in something other than his typical layers is… Weird. He’s standing by a table filled with buckets of iced champagne, talking to a pair of women in sparkling cocktail dresses, and…

Rhys has to admit that the two-piece black suit, well. It _suits him,_ and extremely well. The lines of it are perfect, accentuating his broad shoulders and lengthening his legs, not a wrinkle in sight. Unlike everyone else he’s not wearing a tie, the first button of his sharp-collared navy shirt undone rakishly. His holster remains, strapped to his belt and right thigh, revolver butt sticking out and impossible to ignore. Rhys has to tear his eyes away, lest he get caught checking the older man out.

The room is full of stylishly dressed Hyperion employees, all schmoozing of course, whitened teeth and gaudy jewelry. All of the department heads, including Lisa who Rhys spots skulking by a table of hors d’oeuvres in a dark suit and flats. But there are a ton of people Rhys doesn’t even _recognize_ , and he’s willing to bet most of them aren’t even from Helios. High-rollers from other Hyperion outposts, then. They look at home amidst the lux décor of the restaurant, which belongs more on Eden-5 than anything within Pandora’s orbit. Dark woods (not even synthetic!), floating incandescent chandeliers, a god damned _fountain_ trickling some amber liquid that reflects myriad colors across the vaulted ceiling.

Rhys definitely feels… Well, out of place. This is exactly the kind of soiree he had dreamt of while clawing his way up the corporate ladder, but _being_ here is a whole other story. The glitz somehow feels more manufactured than the steel beams of Helios, and equally suffocating.

He stands around for a few moments, scanning the incredibly long white table with its bone-white place settings, when suddenly he sees Cyrus at the elbow of the accounting head. He waves, relieved to see someone familiar that doesn’t just refer to him as “Jack’s PA,” and to his surprise Cyrus lights up and strides over almost immediately.

“Rhys! Hey, nice to see you again.” He offers his hand to shake, and again Rhys is pleased by how naturally he handles his metal hand. Cyrus’s neat beard seems freshly trimmed, and he moves naturally in the grey three-piece suit he wears, bright red handkerchief accenting his breast pocket.

“Nice to see you too,” Rhys says honestly, smiling. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. Although, I honestly didn’t know _I’d_ be here ‘til, like, noon.”

Cyrus laughs, crossing his arms. “Well, I realize this is more of a function for… Important people. People with a hand in the Pandoran success. I’m just as surprised to be here as you are to see me.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant.” Rhys grimaces, waving his hands. “I mean, I’m probably less important than you and _I’m_ here, so…”

Cyrus actually laughs, raising his dark eyebrows, the only indicator that he’s not naturally blond. “Sorry, you, not important? Didn’t Handsome Jack just leave you in charge of Helios for two weeks?”

True. “Well, not _exactly_ , but... Okay. Important enough to get invited to this fancy party I guess.” His eyes wander back to Jack, who’s still standing by the champagne table. Only he’s alone now, and staring in Rhys’s direction, looking strangely consternated.

“You look great by the way,” Cyrus says with a smile, eyes not so subtly running from Rhys’s black wingtip shoes to his carefully styled hair. He’s wearing his favorite suit, black with silver accents round the lapels, coupled with a Hyperion-yellow tie that matches his sleeveless metal arm. He’d considered wearing one of his suits that actually covered it up, but ultimately it was his baby and he couldn’t resist showing it off. Besides, sleeves restricted the motion somewhat.

Rhys rubs at the back of his head. “Me? No. No way. You!” He points at Cyrus, “I feel like you’re señor classy over here.” As soon as it’s out he considers slapping himself in the face, but opts for a subtle laugh instead. Apparently he sticks the landing because Cyrus’s smile just widens.

From there they just chat a bit, tame but friendly and peppered with a few jokes. Where are you from, where do you live, how long have you been at Hyperion? It feels good to have honest to god small talk with a normal human being. He definitely hasn’t done it in a while, not since well before Pandora and Jack and everything in-between.

“You’ve been down on Pandora?” Cyrus asks, widening his eyes and taking a sip of bourbon. He’d politely brought Rhys a cocktail a few minutes ago as well, and Rhys raises a finger before taking a gulp of it.

“Ohhh yes.” He says as he lowers the glass with a sigh, “not for long, but… I mean, any amount is really long enough down there.”

“Is that how you got the, er.” Cyrus gestures slightly with his tumbler of bourbon, indicating Rhys’s arm. It’s the first time Rhys has heard him say something with less than perfect confidence, and he looks down in confusion before shaking his head.

“No, no, I got my arm when I volunteered for the cybernetics implants.” He taps the side of his head with a half-smile.

Cyrus raises a hand apologetically, “Oh, not your arm, I mean…” He reaches out with his free hand towards Rhys’s arm, finger gently tracing the edge of the bullet-mark. “… This.” His eyes lift to meet Rhys’s and they lock there for a moment. Rhys feels his cheeks heating up, mouth already open to respond when a woman’s voice calls out through the room.

“Ladies and Gentleman, dinner is served. If you would please be seated.”

Whatever was happening, it’s fizzled now. Cyrus drops his hand and they both share a nervous laugh. As they walk to the table Rhys provides the cursory explanation; failed assassin, bad shot.

They take a couple of empty chairs next to each other. “Hey there, kitten,” says a voice from Rhys’s left. Jack is sliding into the chair next to him, face a tight, well… Mask. He’s smiling but there’s something off about it, and his voice is higher that usual, defensive somehow. “Who’s your little friend here?”

Rhys blinks, surprised to have Jack actually sitting by him. “Jack! This is, well, this is Cyrus. He’s an accounts manager.” Cyrus nods his head obligingly, reaching across Rhys to offer his hand to Jack.

“Jack, sir, it’s an honor to meet you. I—“

Jack just stares Cyrus full in the face, making no move to grasp his hand. “That’s _Handsome Jack_ , kid.” His words drip like venom.

Cyrus lowers his hand slowly. “Of… course. Apologies.”

Jack turns his gaze back to Rhys coolly. His hand slides under the table to grip Rhys’s thigh in a less than subtle manner, tight enough to feel more like a threat than a come-on. Rhys can see Cyrus’s look of surprised discomfort from the corner of his eye. “Don’t wander off after dinner” Jack says tight-lipped before taking his hand away and standing. He takes a different seat down the table amidst a gaggle of board members, and Rhys can only look down at his place setting in confused embarrassment.

It takes a while, but during the five-course dinner he falls back into a conversation with Cyrus, awkward at first before it returns to the ease they’d established before. The champagne that attentive waiters continually refill is admittedly helpful. Rhys is trying to avoid thinking about what Jack had meant by telling him to stay after. Trying to avoid thinking about Jack at all, really.

“Listen up!” It’s Jack’s voice that that eventually calls for everyone’s attention as they finish their desserts, heads swiveling to where he stands at the head of the table. Conversations cut off mid-sentence, forks are set down slowly. The holster strapped to Jack’s tleg is especially apparent when he’s the only one standing, and it’s a power play if Rhys has ever seen one. It says, remember kids: Handsome Jack is your boss. Handsome Jack can kill you, _will_ kill you, and will almost certainly _enjoy_ killing you.

“Thank you everybody for coming.” He booms, spreading out his arms. “I mean, it’s a fancy-ass _free dinner_ , so if anything you should all be thanking _me_ , but, y’know. That aside. We’re here to celebrate our return to Pandora.”

There’s a smattering of applause around the table. Jack raises a hand, smiling, waving it down. “Yeah, yeah. I know, it’s been going great, right? I know that my… _Absence_ ” somebody down the table coughs, and Jack’s eyes snap to them vengefully “…waaas a bit of a rough patch. But the success we’re having on Pandora right now, the new ventures we’re getting into? That’s only a sample of the things to come now that I’m back.” More applause.

“I’m sure you’re thinking to yourselves, ‘well where’s Jack going with this? We all know he’s super great and stupidly attractive.’ So let me get to the point.”

Jack leans forward quickly, slamming his hands on the table so hard that crystal champagne flutes shake, plates jump. He stays leaned like that, looking around slowly. The startled faces of those present point at him like a compass needle pointing true North. Perfect silence.

“I know that some of you bastards are, hm, disloyal, is that the word I’m looking for?” He leans towards the woman closest to him, a bone-thin 60 year old whose plastic-surgery sculpted face is twitching with the effort of expression. “Would you say traitors Miriam? Because it feels uncreative. What about… Skag-licking, slag-sucking _traitors_?” He shifts, leaning now towards the man on his right. “Jason? Little help? No, nothing to say?”

He straightens back up focusing on Rhys. “Rhys, c’mere.” His finger beckons. Rhys freezes, deer in the headlights. “I said, _heel_ god damn it” Jack growls, hand clenching impatiently. Rhys awkwardly pushes back his chair with a screech; he can feel everybody’s eyes on him. Cyrus grabs his sleeve like he’s going to stop him, thinks better of it, lets go.

It’s a long walk down the table, but he comes nervously to Jack’s side. Everybody is staring at him, obviously interested. You can almost tell who’s highest up the corporate ladder by who looks the calmest, who’s best at dealing with Jack’s outbursts.

Jack grabs his arm roughly, extending it to gesture under the bullet mark like a showgirl displaying a new car. “See this?” He asks, shaking it with emphasis. Rhys winces but doesn’t protest. “ _This_ was a bullet meant for _me_.” He drops Rhys’s arm. “Now, obviously it didn’t hit me. But it _did_ hit Rhys here. Whi-ich is whyyy…” He draws his pistol and points it at ‘Jason’ unceremoniously. “There’s about to be a new opening on the board!”

Rhys is sure nobody is truly _surprised_ when Jack shoots Jason to death. Probably not even surprised that he empties the clip, not even looking at the man as he kills him. There’s the cursory looks of horror, fear, disgust. Somebody in the back faints. But surprise that Jack would _do_ it? Probably not.

Some of Jason is splattered on Rhys’s shoe.

“Okay! So, that’s taken care of. See, Jason here was a spy. To be clear, he was kind of the boss of several _other_ spies that infiltrated Hyperion, all of whom are currently being garroted and drowned in their own toilets.” Jack stops to chuckle at that. “Jason here helped promote his shit-licking little friends! Jason here is responsible for denting my hot PA.” Jack kicks lazily at the foot of the corpse, which has slumped face first into a plate of tiramisu. A crew of waiters is already on their way with a mop and bucket, so this is apparently nothing alarming for them.

“I hope everyone was finished eating, because dinner is over. I’m sure you’re all smart enough to realize this was a demonstration, right? Good! Now, one more point of business.” Jack reaches back, pulling Rhys back up to the table and snaking an arm around his waist. “Rhys here will be taking Jason’s spot on the board.”

Rhys’s head jerks to look over at the side of Jack’s face, which is split in a truly horrifying grin. “I’m… What?”

“You’ve earned it, sweetcheeks.” Jack murmurs. His fingers tighten on Rhys’s ribs before letting go. “Alright then, everyone. Party’s over! Shoo.”

The silence is now filled by chairs scraping back, the jingle of disturbed plates and cups as people stand and leave summarily. Nobody’s running. Jack’s made his point. The wait-staff has already dragged Jason off in a large black bag. Cyrus looks at Rhys with concern as he stands, shoving his napkin on his plate, but he finally turns and leaves as well.

“I’m on the board?” Rhys says with some amount of awe, turning to Jack.

Jack hmms. “That’s right, kiddo.” But the look of anger is still there in his pale eyes. “There’s a car waiting outside the back door. Get in it.”

Rhys frowns, grabbing a napkin to wipe the blood from his shoe before crumpling it and tossing it on the table. He can’t say he feels regret for the death of a guy that had essentially gotten him shot. “Where are we going?”

Jack holsters his gun stiffly. “To my place.” He swipes one of the abandoned champagne flutes and downs its contents, letting it fall and shatter on the floor. “We’re going to have a little _talk._ ”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's going to be next chapter was originally going to be part of THIS chapter, but I figured you guys have waited for an update long enough. I've been on vacation with my boyfriend, so not a whole lotta time to write.

The ride to Jack’s place is… Quiet, at first. Tense. The car is of the self-piloted variety, apparently pre-programmed with the coordinates of their destination, so they’re both sitting in the back seat pointedly not looking at one another. 

Rhys is still feeding off the high of his promotion. The board- that’s a big deal, that’s a position he’d never expected to reach. That’s actual power. He feels like he should be more disturbed at having just watched a murder, but he can’t seem to muster it. He keeps glancing sideways at Jack, who stares out of his tinted window broodingly.

“So… How did you find out it was Jason?” ‘Jason' was actually known to Rhys as Mr. Poltanski, although he’d only ever heard of him in passing. He was one of the less assuming board-members, never making overt uses of his power for personal gain. Which, Rhys is smart enough to realize now, must’ve been a deliberate attempt to avoid drawing attention. 

Jack snorts. “Does it matter?” 

“Well… Yeah, kind of. I’m the one who got shot, didn’t I?” He taps next to the dented metal wryly.

Jack pauses. His fingers are tapping where they grip his arm. “I hired a merc to do some digging. Someone with a sizeable rep. And then, y’know, like ten others, so they were all kinda investigating eachother in this convoluted web of fuckery, just in case one or two or five were dirty.” Jack shrugs his crossed arms, still not looking at Rhys. “The info checked out. Waited til I was back here so that I could put on a nice little show for the ingrates that work for me.”

Rhys wants to ask _Why didn’t you tell me sooner?_ , but he still can’t quite nail down Jack’s mood. Besides, Jack would take that wrong. It would sound too much like nagging, like the implication of partnership between them, and Rhys knows that if he wants to avoid losing his new board position in a similar manner to Jason, he should always remember the golden rule; Jack is never, never on any level _close_ to you.

The car is coming to a stop, the gentle hum of its engine terminating with a beep. None of the residential sub-stations are that huge, especially with the height they stack the apartments to. Squinting out the tinted window, Rhys can see that they’re in a small private garage. Probably underneath one of the many neon-towers that make up the living areas, down in the metal core of the satellite. He wonders how many of these people know they have Handsome Jack for a neighbor.

“Out.” Jack commands, climbing out of the car and slamming his door shut behind him. Rhys follows suit, scrambling to follow the other man who is already striding rapidly towards an elevator, the only feature in the square metal-plated garage.

Jack rapidly taps in a code, presses a finger to a print pad, presents his eye for a retinal scan, and finally the elevator admits them. This ride is silent as well. Rhys is waiting, rather prudently he thinks, waiting to see what it is Jack’s going to do. Going to say. 

When the doors slide open, Rhys blinks. 

The apartment is huge, definitely more modernly decorated than Jack’s office but sharing one similarity; the entirety of the one wall is a window, a breathtaking view of nothing but stars, the horizon of the residential satellite apparently far below. Pinpricks of light in a black field, and nothing else.

Jack is watching him as he steps out. The synthetic floor has a pale green glow almost exactly the shade and intensity of a bioluminescent mushroom. The squares his feet touch pulse brighter as he walks, taking in the sunken living room area with its low couches, an expansive kitchen far off to the right, what seems to be a bedroom area far to the left. There are only a few doors, which he assumes to be the bathroom and maybe some storage; otherwise Jack’s apartment is just one humongous space, the rooms flowing together in a shifting palette of blacks and dark blues. Nothing ostentatious enough to detract from the wall of stars.

“Wow,” Rhys says, scanning the floor, the expensive displays and dark geometric furniture. “This is where you live?”

Jack snorts. “Kid, this is just where I stay when I’m on _Helios._ I have frickin’ mansions in other galaxies. I have like four other apartments in this solar system _alone_.”

Right. Jack is CEO of one of the most successful mega-corporations. But still—this place _feels_ like him, expensive but precise, stylish but larger-than-life. And given how much time he spends on Helios, well… Rhys has a feeling the mansions are more for show than this place.

“So… Why are we here?” Rhys asks finally, looking over his shoulder at Jack. “You said you wanted to talk?” He’s— surprisingly, not too worried. Sure, Jack is still looking at him with that old anger simmering in his eyes, but he wouldn’t have named him board-member if he was going to murder him _immediately._ Probably. Right?

“Well, pumpkin” Jack says, low and annoyed and stalking towards the living room area, “I had been planning on talking to you about Pandora. About what the fuck I’ve been _up to_ on that piss rock for the last two weeks.”

Rhys perks up, following. He wants more than anything to be clued in on the plan, to be put in a position where he can help. As they step down into the living room the entirety of its sunken rectangular floor pulses to life, pale blue.

Jack stops to stand in front of a squat black couch, gesturing for Rhys to sit down, which he does. A lightly phosphorescent cube sits between them, casting pale lights of shifting hue over the harsh features of Jack’s mask. Rhys waits, but Jack only stares down at him imposingly, arms crossed. 

“…So?” He asks, unable to restrain his bubbling curiosity.

Jack stares a moment longer before stepping around the table, leaning forward slightly. The stiffness in his posture screams restraint, as do his carefully enunciated words. “If I see that blond ass-hat around you one more time? Cyro or Sarah or whatever the _fuck_ his stupid name is? I will pull some ancient, truly savage shit. I will yank his brains out through his fucking nose, assuming he has any, and then I’ll deviate from the formula a bit _just for fun_ and cram them down his throat. Maybe set him on fire, too? We’ll see.”

Rhys blinks, remembering the weirdly possessive thigh grab from earlier. Despite that outburst, he hadn’t expected… This.

“We were just talking,” he protests, not even sure _why_ he needs to.

“Oh thaaat’s rich. ‘Just talking.’” Jack says with air-quotes. “The guy was eye-fucking you the entire time.”

Rhys feels his ears heat up. “He was just being nice, and… What do you care?”

Jack swoops in suddenly, bracing a hand on the back of the couch and pointing a finger in Rhys’s face, shaking. Rhys jerks back in surprise. “I do _not_ share my toys. Have we not been over this?”

Rhys’s fingers clench in his suit pants. He feels like a dog exposing its neck to the pack leader, the way he immediately forces his head back into the soft cushion of the couch, as far from Jack as he can get for reasons he can’t explain.

His heart is definitely pounding now. “We’re not— I’m not your boyfriend. So— Why— Why do you care?” He manages defiantly. 

Rhys catches the flare of Jack’s nostrils as he slams his hands into the back of the couch in frustration, roaring “I don’t _know_ god damn it!” Jack grabs Rhys by the throat, much like he has before, firm but not suffocating. His eyes look especially bright in the glow of the floor, unearthly.

Rhys swallows, feeling his Adam’s apple bob against the crook of Jack’s thumb, but otherwise stock-still. Not fighting. This feels almost familiar, now. He realizes he’s almost _used_ to this, to the threat of suffocation. “For some inexplicable fucking _stupid_ reason, I can’t get you out of my head.” Jack hisses, fingers flexing slightly. The hand that grips the back of the couch tightens fiercely by contrast, as if it’s a stand-in for Rhys’s throat. His voice is tighter, like he’s struggling, gaze flitting between Rhys’s eyes, and Rhys is shocked by the words, shocked at the idea that Jack— Handsome Jack— is admitting to having thoughts about someone other than himself. About Rhys, of all people.

“I— For fucks sake, I’m into _badasses_ , stone cold killers that are sexy as fuck and can hold their god damn own. The kinda women that fuck me more than I fuck them, y’know. And yeah, some guys every now and then too. But _you_ ” his hand tightens and Rhys shudders, metal hand scrabbling up finally to grab at Jack’s wrist, more to remind him of what he’s doing than to pry him away. 

Jack laughs unconvincingly, releasing Rhys’s throat and beginning to pace nervously with his hands thrown up. “You are _no-one_. Nothing. You’re hot, young, whatever, I figure we’ll mess around and I’ll get back to saving the god-damn world, right? Do you a favor? But it’s not enough, it’s not a-god-damn-‘nough and I have blue balls every fucking time I’m around you, and then I see this asshole _touching you_ ” Jack leans down again in a flash, punching the back of the couch hard enough that Rhys feels the vibration through his head and down his spine.

As he stares up at a heavy-breathing Jack, whose fist is still firmly planted against the couch, he’s expecting— more yelling, more of Jack reminding him that he’s just his _toy._ What he doesn’t expect is for Jack to fall to his knees in front of him, grab him by the tie like you’d grab a dog by the leash, and pull him into a kiss. 

It’s— Fervent, not exactly like the angry scraping of lips that happened on Lisa’s workbench, more like desperation. Like Jack resents caring. Their mouths open and close against each other wetly, teeth bumping lips, Jack’s hand already shoving under the back of Rhys’s suit jacket as the other grips his knee for support. Their lips break away, just a fraction, Rhys already feeling wild and confused and giddy. Looking down at Jack on his knees, a thing he never thought he’d see. 

Jack stands and grabs Rhys by the lapels, pulling him up with him. Biting into his neck, grabbing at him desperately. “This stupid suit” Jack growls, and as he devours Rhys he maneuvers them so that they’re walking, Rhys stumbling blindly backwards because he can’t think with Jack’s mouth hot against him. He nearly falls at the step up out of the living-room, but the arm Jack has around his lower back holds tight. They’re half-falling half-walking like one stunted organism until _finally_ , finally they’ve made their way across the enormous apartment and something presses against the backs of his knees. His eyes open halfway in surprise right before Jack shoves him unceremoniously down onto the expanse of his black-sheeted bed.

“Fuck!” Rhys exclaims, struggling to his elbows, which sink into the form-fitting mattress like a sandpit. “You could’ve warned me—“

Jack yanks Rhys’s neatly shined shoes off without untying them, throwing them carelessly to the side. “Quiet time now.”

Rhys opens his mouth, thinks better and closes it as Jack leans in to tug at his belt and fly. He yanks Rhys’s pants down over his hips so forcefully he has no choice but to raise them obligingly if he doesn’t want his legs torn off. He curses. 

Jack’s somehow kicking off his own suit pants already, shoes and socks toed off at some indeterminate point in time, shrugging out of the perfectly tailored black jacket with about as much care as he shows for dirty napkins. “I told you I was going to break you in when I got back, didn’t I pumpkin?” He breathes as he climbs on top of Rhys, the navy blue of his shirt contrasting nicely with the streak of grey in his hair as he shoves their mouths together.

“Mhm” Rhys mumbles into his lips weakly. Apprehension and excitement are the weird cocktail of arousal tonight, apparently, because if Jack’s actually going to fuck him this time he has no idea what to expect. 

“Because apparently, you need constant _reminders_ of what your god damn purpose is,” Jack hisses, and from there he’s damn near ripping the remaining clothes from Rhys’s body in his attempts at removal. Rhys is fairly certain he hears a seam pop when Jack is extracting him from his jacket in a tangle, barely has time to lament before buttons are literally flying from the dress shirt Jack peels off his shoulders and yanks out from under him.

There are flurries of kisses and bites in-between; Rhys honestly has no idea how Jack is managing to do both things at once. But soon he’s being urged up the mattress, scooting awkwardly back until they’re fully on the bed and they’re _both_ completely naked, and when did that happen, exactly?

Jack’s back at his ear, hands roughly pulling Rhys’s legs apart. “I should’ve done this at dinner. Should’ve bent your pretty little ass over the table and fucked you in front of your little _friend_. Y’know I could’ve? Those idiots don’t do anything when I shoot a guy, they’re just gonna sit there and watch what I do to you.” He pulls back with a grin to press his hand against the wall above Rhys’s head, apparently searching for something. It’s the first chance Rhys gets to really look at him, at what he’s half-felt through three layers of clothing previously, illuminated by the wall of stars off to the left.

Jack is— Well, his body matches his face. Not ridiculously ripped but definitely toned, muscles of a man that doesn’t hit the gym incessantly but is used to getting physical. Rhys swallows, hands covering his own thinner but softter abdomen subconsciously. Jack’s shoulders are broad, strong-biceps, flat stomach, light dusting of hair across his chest. He wonders if there were any scars, before the new body, and that just brings him back to the mask. Back to what might be under there, because shouldn’t it— shouldn’t whatever it is be _gone_ , from a body that was essentially grown out of a test-tube of Jack’s DNA? 

Apparently his hand finally alights on what he was looking for, because a panel slides back. “Ha!” Is the sound of Jack’s triumph, grabbing a bottle from the hole in the wall. “Thing’s too fucking hard to find,” he grunts, already back to kissing Rhys thoroughly. The mask feels incredibly real, Rhys’ll give whoever made it that much. His tongue can’t even find the seam where it meets Jack’s actual lips, and the texture is so much like _skin_ , radiating the warmth of Jack’s face beneath. 

There’s a slick finger pressing into him, the preparation of which he seemed to miss in his distraction. He lets out a hiss, more at the coolness than the sensation. “I know this isn’t your first rodeo, kid.” Jack breathes, his free hand smoothing over Rhys’s torso, forcing away his hands. “Don’t get shy on me.”

There’s already a second finger, stretching with little scissoring motions as Jack pushes in knuckle deep. Rhys has to squeeze his eyes shut. It’s not painful, but it’s also not _gentle_. Jack’s staring down at him hungrily the whole time, and the way that makes Rhys’s cock jerk helps him to relax.

Honestly, Jack prepares him more than he would have expected, never really slow and loving but definitely very thorough. Like he actually— Cares, about more than his own pleasure, despite his obvious impatience as he bites across Rhys’s chest. When he finally withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his dick he’s practically shaking against Rhys, who is panting and admittedly trembling like a leaf as Jack thrusts in. He doesn’t stop to let Rhys adjust, but he does move fluidly and without too much force.

“Ohhhh god, finallyfinallyfinally,” Jack moans as he bottoms out, one hand supporting himself as the other keeps Rhys’s thigh shoved back, open. Rhys opens his eyes slightly, mouth slack and skin on fire. A moment of discomfort before Jack starts thrusting, moderately paced but _deep, deep, so damn deep._ “God kid, I knew you’d feel so good. Fuck, keep your legs open wide, that’s it. Good, good, so good.”

Rhys adjusts surprisingly quick, the ache overrun by sparks the first time that Jack brushes against his prostate. His hips jerk up with a loud moan, and Jack grins wildly, grabbing him by the chin and nearly folding him in half just to lean down and kiss him.

At some point Rhys remembers he has hands, grips at Jack’s rippling back because if he doesn’t hold onto something he feels like he’ll sink through the mattress. Jack is thrusting desperately by this point, one hand finally grabbing and stroking Rhys’s straining erection, the fingers of the other digging painfully into Rhys’s hip. The slaps of skin and Rhys’s desperate moans are the only sounds, like Jack’s lost himself too much to talk for once in his life.

He comes with Jack’s name and mouth on his lips, muscles lax and sticky with sweat. When Jack comes, maybe a minute later, his hip bones dig into Rhys’s thighs with the force of one last thrust, forehead pressing into Rhys’s chest. The sound that comes from his chest is like a man gutted. Rhys finds that his fingers have curled around the tattoo on Jack’s wrist, staring dazedly at the ceiling.

It’s not the sex that confuses Rhys. It’s the fact that Jack doesn’t kick him out after. Passes out with Rhys pulled against his chest, legs tangled and sharp chin resting in the tangle of Rhys’s ash brown hair. 

He thinks about Pandora. He thinks about what it is Jack’s going to tell him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever the anon is that keeps asking me for chapter updates on Tumblr... You're adorable.

Rhys opens confused eyes to sunlight.

Okay, so after a few blinks he realizes that it’s actually just a damn good _imitation_ of sunlight, streaming from the small globular light-fixtures in Jack’s brushed-metal ceiling. He manages to turn his head groggily, squinting to his left where Jack had been; where he is decidedly not anymore. His eyes continue warily to the edge of the room and its enormous window, the expanse of stars that comprises an entire wall. The effect is a strange contrast with the seemingly natural sunlight that has him rubbing his eyes tiredly, struggling to avoid letting the night’s events crash into him all at once.

“Oh god,” he groans finally, slowly sitting, sticky and sore in more ways than one. From the sex, sure. But also from failing to detach his arm as he normally would before bed; the metal ridges have left marks where they pressed into his skin over night, angry red lines next to the purple suck-marks Jack left across his body.

He exhales slowly, looking around; the convenience of Jack’s enormous but one-roomed apartment is that he can immediately tell he’s here alone. Right. Because of course Jack decided to leave him alone after a night of weirdly intense sex in his penthouse apartment. That, at least, seems much more in-character than the things Jack had said.

What he’d done to Rhys— well, that was in-character enough, if it wasn’t for the way he’d _done_ it. Carefully and not nearly as rushed and violent as Rhys had been expecting. Followed with— alright he sure as hell couldn’t connect the word “cuddle” with Jack, but they’d definitely been pressed against eachother in a very specific fashion.

He struggles to get up, wrinkling his nose at the various ways his body protests and sticks. He manages to lower his feet to the floor, which glows to life sunset red, leans his face in his hands and calls up the HUD on his ECHO eye to check his messages.

First up is an ECHO from Vaughn which he plays as he stands, beginning the process of finding the various places Jack had flung his clothes.

“Hey man, couldn’t help noticing you didn’t make it home last night. I’m just going to assume that you’re dead? Which is really inconsiderate because they’re about to jack rent up _again_. Anyways, just letting you know that I officially call dibs on your novelty sock collection if you have in fact croaked, and also reminding you we’re supposed to get drinks with Yvette tonight. Unless you’re dead. In which case, don’t come, it’d be awkward. See ya soon buddy!” The message clicks off as Rhys adjusts the elastic on his boxer-briefs. Vaughn must have been on his way to work when he recorded the message, because there are over-lapping voices in the background. Probably on the shuttle that runs between their sub-station and Helios, judging by the weird mechanical humming…

Shit, wait. Work. It’s Friday, there’s work, why the hell hadn’t Jack woken him up? Was it a passive-aggressive means of firing? Permission to stay home for the day? Or just Jack conveniently ignoring his existence? His eye’s display helpfully supplies that it’s 10:23am as Rhys struggles to pull on his slacks, cursing.

As he dresses hurriedly he registers that his dress shirt is missing a few buttons, and the tightly sewed seam of his jacket’s right shoulder is frayed. He runs fingers through his hair in a frantic attempt at taming it, but it’s going to be obvious to everyone on Helios that he didn’t stay at his own apartment last night.

He’s surprised when the elevator takes him down to the garage with no fuss, no need for all of the retinal and fingerprint scans Jack had done the previous night. Even more surprised to find the sleek black car idling there, back door open, pre-programmed to take him to the shuttle station.

There’s a note on the seat as he slides in. Jack’s large slanted hand-writing.

_Work. I told you we have things to talk about, princess._

 

* * *

 

Rolling into Hyperion late, wearing a damaged suit with hickies peeking out above the collar. Truly a classy day for Rhys. He doesn’t need to look at Cheryl to know she’s raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows at him as he walks by.

“Well look who decided to come in!” says Jack from his desk as Rhys steps into the office. “First day as a board member and those lazy fatasses are already rubbing off on you.” He stands, cocking a brow and giving him an exaggerated once over. “And jesus, last night’s clothes?”

“You’re the one who decided to leave me sleeping!” Rhys protests, throwing up his hands. Any nerves at seeing Jack are so easily eclipsed by annoyance at his current situation. “We kind of…” He stops, ears turning red.

“Kid, I came in here at 4am,” Jack says flatly, leaning palms down on his desk. “What’d you want, breakfast in bed? A wake-up call? I _thought_ I’d do you the favor of letting you sleep until you had to work.”

Rhys blinks. “Wait, 4? You came here at _4 am?_ ” He walks towards Jack’s desk, for the first time noticing the return of clutter that he’d only too recently cleaned. More maps, more data-drives and crumpled notes. “And look, it’s not like I… Thought to set an alarm,” he adds, cautiously eyeing what seems to be a topographical map of Pandora.

Jack falls back into his chair. “Oh? And why would that be, pumpkin? ” He asks with a smug smile, crossing his arms.

Warmth spreads across Rhys’s cheeks. Great, so now it’s time for Jack to gloat. “You know why.” He murmurs, awkwardly crossing his arms and staring at a particularly bold vein in the marble floor.

“Nuh-uh. Come ‘ere.” Rhys looks up reluctantly. Jack is beckoning him with a finger, slouched in his chair in his oh-so-confident douche bag manner. Rhys hesitates, briefly. “I said, _come here_ “ Jack repeats, this time with a harder edge and a sharp look of impatience. Rhys jerks into action, walking around the desk to stand in front of where Jack has turned his chair.

Jack rises, stalking around Rhys who is staring guardedly from the corner of his eye. Jack is acting the way he always does when he works hard on little sleep, because he’s likely drank his weight in coffee by this point. “Sit down.” He says, pointing at his recently vacated chair. He pauses a moment before grinning. “I promised you I’d fill you in, didn’t I?”

Rhys whips his head back to look at Jack. “Pandora?” He asks carefully.

Jack nods, guiding him by the shoulders into the chair with a squeak of leather. Rhys goes easily, gripping the arms in anticipation. “That’s right, kiddo. You’ve waited so patiently, haven’t you?” He leans on the back of the chair, gesturing at his holo-screen, which flickers to life at the proximity of his wrist-band. “Wasn’t going to tell you until I got concrete results. Just another one of my hunches, after all, which have a record of turning out _great _,__ sure, but still.” The screen displays a rotation of Pandora, followed by a closer zoom to a topographical map. “Don’t count your Rakk until you’ve got the carrion to feed ‘em, right?”

Rhys watches silently, excitement building in his throat.

“Now, you’re aware of all that shit about Pandora’s initial colonization right, the winter followed by the thaw, followed by all the nasty little abominations crawling out to dismember and savage the unlucky bastards who’d made this hell-hole their home?”

Rhys nods, glancing up at Jack who manipulates the screen intently, waving through images of various indigenous Pandoran species, their apparent habitats highlighting on the map and in turn growing to mirror their expansion after the thaw.

“Now, what about this beauty?” Jack says, reaching an arm around Rhys to tap at his keyboard. An image pulls up of— Well, Rhys supposes it’s a skag, but the sheer _size_ of the thing blanks his mind for a moment.

It has to be ten times larger than the Alpha-skags surrounding it. It’s bony armor plating is especially thick, its coloring a strange orange with accents of red on its thorny shell. Its three jawed mouth is split open in what must have been an ear shattering roar, flecks of vivid green slime spraying from its mandible. “How do you explain something like that?” Jack whispers.

Rhys stares at the screen for a moment, slightly in awe. He’s heard the stories of the monsters on Pandora, especially large and deadly on a planet where everything already is large and deadly, but seeing it is another thing. It dwarfs all of the (already horrifying) creatures he’d seen in his short time on the planet.

“Um. Evolution?” He ventures dumbly, shrugging. “I guess its ancestors must have just been… The biggest, meanest skags. For like, centuries. Resulting in this thing?” It’s all he’s got.

Jack looks down at him, clearly unimpressed, waving his hand to start a slide-show of various over-sized nasties. Varkids, rakk, bullymong, threshers. All ridiculously large and over-developed, but unmistakably of a specific species.

“Really? That’s your answer?” He deadpans, gesturing at the images. “The right monsters fucked so consistently that they produced these? Giant versions of themselves that go against established traits of the species, and yet we don’t see any in-betweens running around?”

Rhys slumps, chin propped in his hand thoughtfully as he watches the images float by, beginning to repeat. Where had these pictures come from, anyways? These types of things are legends for a reason. Because they kill nearly everybody they met, and those that get away sure as hell don’t stop for a picture.

“So… An environmental factor, then?” Rhys says finally, looking up at Jack.

He smiles, reaching down to ruffle Rhys’s hair, which admittedly gives Rhys a flutter of pride. "Exactly kitten. Now, back before my… Absence, I got a hunch. Because, y’see, these freaks happen on Elpis too. And what weird fucking element has been found on both Pandora and Elpis, what element do we still not know all the goddamn effects of?”

“Eridium.” Rhys says in quiet awe, turning back to the screen that Jack has switched back to the map of Pandora.

Jack’s fingers tighten in his hair as he reaches around the chair once again to tap at the keyboard with his free hand. A handful of white dots appear on the map. “These,” Jack says, massaging Rhys’s scalp absentmindedly, “these are more-or-less where my bots got pictures of these things. You have no idea how many of my loaders ended up scrap metal before they could even shoot a pic over the ECHOnet.” Rhys nods, ignoring the flush on his cheeks as Jack removes his hand, his weight on the back of the chair pulling it back slightly. “Now this,” Jack says, manipulating the holo-screen again. Gradients of purple spread across the map, the most saturated pools clearly correlating with the location of the dots. “This is where we’ve found the most concentrated eridium build-up.”

“So… Eridium is mutating them?” Rhys crosses his arms, raising a brow. “But why just a few? Why not everything near it?”

Jack shrugs. “Yeah well, look. My specialized team of nerds hasn’t figured that out quite yet but. It’s definitely the eridium, that much we know now for sure.” Jack suddenly takes his weight from the chair and it springs forward slightly. Rhys straightens in surprise as Jack steps around to pull himself on the desk, facing Rhys. “We don’t know why it enhances sirens powers either, do we? My guess is it’s something like that, which I’m aware doesn’t say a whole lot, but it’s irrelevant. What’s relevant is this.”

He pulls his keyboard into his lap, tapping away through multiple screens until a video-feed pulls up. The time stamp in the corner indicates that this is live. Men in lab-coats, Hyperion issue, standing with ECHOdevices in hand around what Rhys’s squinting eyes make out to be an enormous cage that crackles with electricity. He can’t make out much of their exact location, just the circle of floor they stand in that’s lit by a floodlight. His ECHO eye dilates, enhances the contrast. Highlights a hulking shadow, deep in the recesses of the cage but distinctly huge. Too large.

Rhys grips the edge of his seat, leaning forward in horror as the shadow shifts, something glinting in the faint light. Fangs? Claws?

“You didn’t,” he says quietly, mouth slightly agape. Jack has one. Has one of the giant creatures captive, in some unmarked facility on Pandora. Someplace that probably no one in Hyperion knows about but him and the people on this camera feed.

Jack is smirking; arms crossed as he watches the screen like a proud father seeing his daughter ride a bike for the first time. Rhys notices more, notices the consoles surrounding the cage, the crates full of eridium bars. “Oh, I did.” Jack says happily. “Wanna know what else these beasties have in common with sirens?”

Rhys watches, rapt, as a woman manipulates the controls of the largest machine, a machine with huge transparent tubes snaking from its base and back into the depths of the cage. Glowing purple starts chugging through the tubes, steadily back towards the towering shadow.

“You pump enough into their veins and they get downright _addicted_. “

The thing in the cage is moving more, restlessly now. Rhys thinks he makes out some kind of flank, slick and huge, webbed translucent in the window of light.

“They’ll do anything for it.”

A head sways into view. Almost… Reptillian, yet bat-like in the face. Beady eyes that glow green in the half-light. Tubes, tubes stream from metal connections in its temples, its neck. Purple pumping in, and the thing is— he squints, zooms with his eye— it’s shivering. It shakes out a webbed leg, maybe a wing, almost as if it’s in bliss. Rhys is on the edge of the chair now, hands on his knees.

“But how…” He trails of, managing to tear his eyes away to look between Jack and the screen. “How do you control something like that?” As if on cue, the monster’s mouth opens, apparently in a howl although they’re not getting sound. The closest scientist’s coat stirs with the gust from its mouth despite the distance.

Jack smiles, leaning forwards to gingerly stroke around Rhys’s neural port. “Kid, d’you know how Hyperion perfected cybernetic implants?” He taps slightly and Rhys swallows. “Same way we worked out some of the science on slag. Animal testing. I mean, plenty of human testing too, but animals have simpler minds. With the right stimulus, they become a bit more receptive to direction.”

Rhys doesn’t turn his face from Jack, but he watches from the corner of his eye as the rest of the floodlights flick on suddenly to reveal an enormous stalker, its scaled skin glimmering with iridescent purples and greens, its webbed legs curled beneath it. Jack slips from the desk silently, standing next to Rhys’s chair as a new scientist comes into view, but on the other side of the electrified bars now. He’s walking into the center, directly in view of the monstrosity hooked full of eridium IVs. His breath hitches.

The scientist raises his right hand, which is covered in some kind of bulky metal gauntlet, and the mega stalker stirs. Opens its mouth to loose another roar. Rhys is so sure he’s about to see this man get eaten, get torn in half. His stomach rolls in dread. The stalker stands, pulls itself clumsily to its clawed feet, shaking out a glowing thorned tail.

The scientist lowers the gauntleted hand exaggeratedly, palm down.

The stalker sits.

Jack leans down, right hand gripping Rhys by the nape of the neck warmly. “Y’know, I tried to get a monster before,” he murmurs next to Rhys’s ear. The huge stalker is following more of the scientist’s gestured commands, alternating between standing and sitting, tail swinging up in an attack position before lowering again docilely.

“What I should have been doing was making my own.” Jack’s hand shifts down to Rhys’s back, fingertips pressing lightly into his spine. “Do you have any idea what I can do with a thing like that? With more?”

Rhys shudders. He nods his head. He has some idea. Not one he likes, blood soaking the sand, but an idea, yes.

Jack’s eyes are twinkling brightly with that unnamed tense energy, a bomb waiting to explode. His fingers dig against the nobs of Rhys’s bones. “ _I can make ‘em pay_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly unrelated, but if anyone wants to check out a drawing I did of Handsome Jack over on Tumblr... [Here it is >_>](http://wafflability.tumblr.com/post/125772991019/im-throwin-heat-like-a-funeral-pyre)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [this amazing Jack/Rhys drawing](http://gilbert-bruegel.tumblr.com/post/126425633171/commission-for-wafflability-that-is-an#notes) that I commissioned from tumblr user gilbertbruegel as a treat! It's an illustration from chapter 12. They changed the poses a bit, but it's still super cool, and you should all check out their other Borderlands art.

Jack’s little bout of exposition just leaves Rhys _more_ confused, which is saying something considering what happened last night. The worst part is that Jack doesn’t give him more details on what the monsters are truly _for,_ because Rhys is stunned and misses his window of opportunity to actually ask. By the time he even gathers his thoughts Cheryl is buzzing through the intercom to let Jack know it’s time for his appointment with R &D, apparently a demo for the new line of grenades.

“We’re going down there in two weeks for another progress check” is all Jack says, grinning. He flicks off the feed from Pandora casually. “Better put in some extra time at the shooting range, kiddo. Just in case.” And with a wink he’s off, and Rhys is left in dirty clothes with his head a-buzz.

Of course, his head is much _more_ a-buzz later that night when he meets Yvette and Vaughn for drinks. He has to rush home to shower and dress in time. Jack had refused to allow him to do so during work hours because, according to him, it was ‘hilarious’ watching Rhys deal with people in last night’s mussed dress-clothes. But he still makes it to The Slow Hand by 7 as promised, because the last thing he wants right now is to be alone with his thoughts.

The Slow Hand is a little bar over on one of the substations, one of their favorite haunts when they want to talk and relax rather than club. It’s stylish in its inelegance, just dimly lit and grungy enough to be hip without crossing the line to “dive-bar.” One of the few places in the Hyperion complex that isn’t overly slick and brimming with pretention.

“Wait, what do you mean you’re going to be gone? How long?” Asks Vaughn with vague concern. They’re in their favorite corner booth, at the very back of the bar where they can watch the crowd from a distance. Low-key rock music pipes in through invisible speakers, just loud enough to cover their conversation from anyone more than a few feet away. Privacy, or at least the illusion of it, a scarce commodity on Helios.

Rhys sighs, leaning his forehead in his hand and stirring his cocktail resignedly. “Business trip. Kind of. Don’t know. Maybe a few weeks?” Jack hadn’t exactly _said_ before leaving Rhys to a mess of paperwork, had just told him in passing what day and time to be at the docking bay. 

“And where exactly are you _going_?” asks Yvette with a perfectly arched eyebrow, leaning back in the seat opposite from him and crossing her arms. Her curve-hugging red dress and combat boots add to her already annoying coolness-level, but the real clincher is the one dreadlock she recently dyed magenta. 

Rhys nervously considers the possibility that Jack is watching this all through his ECHO eye. He’s fairly certain there’s no audio component to Jack’s spyware, but _what if._

“Pandora. I can’t tell you why, but it’s…” He considers for a moment. “Well, Jack’s making me go with him.” 

Vaughn nearly chokes on a swig of his acid-colored cocktail. Yvette rolls her eyes and pounds on his back as he splutters, finally managing to raise a finger. He’s dressed the same as he always is, with the addition of a leather jacket in slightly the wrong cut.

“Um, I’m sorry. Did you say _Pandora_?”

“ _Yes._ ” 

“Dude, you fucking underwent major surgery to have a dead guy pulled out of your head _specifically to get off of Pandora!_ ” 

Rhys throws up his hands, slumping back. “Look, I know! I freakin’ know! But Jack— What do you think, that I can just tell him ‘no thanks, I’d rather not.””

Yvette shakes her head slowly, staring at the gin and tonic she holds between carefully manicured fingers. Vaughn points at him accusingly. “Dude, there is _so much_ you aren’t telling us. Like, first Jack promotes you and then somehow doesn’t end up killing you. Then suddenly, you’re a fricking board member. You don’t come home last night. And now Handsome Jack is taking you to Pandora on some top-secret assignment?” He throws his hands up. “What the fuck!”

“My life is very complicated right now.” Rhys mutters exasperatedly from behind metal fingers. He wants to tell them everything so badly, and the alcohol isn’t helping to dial-back that urge. How would he go about saying it? _‘Yeah, Handsome Jack fucked me last night and it was kind of nice and then today he told me about giant creatures he’s controlling and god fucking knows what will be done with those, but people are probably going to die.’_?

Yvette and Vaughn shoot each other a look. Vaughn leans forward. “Yeah, well, when you die—“

“— You’re not getting my sock collection dude!” Rhys cries emphatically, hand sliding from his face. “I will have it buried with me.”

“I’ll dig you up,” Vaughn retorts, mock-serious.

“We will be shot into space together in one of those capsule-caskets. Your weird little hobbit feet will never tough a single thread.”

Their fake argument continues to escalate. “… I’m getting more drinks.” Yvette interjects levelly, sliding out of the booth and heading for the bar.  
By the time she comes back with a tray of shots they’re giggling uncontrollably, and honestly Rhys is relieved to have a moment of not thinking about _Jack,_ of not agonizing over his latest surprise.

Yvette places the silver tray in the middle of the table with a smirk. Six shot glasses, grouped neatly and filled with amber liquid of indeterminate origin or quality.

Vaughn claps a hand to his heart in exaggerated shock. “What’s this? Yvette buying _our_ drinks?” 

Rhys fans himself as if overcome. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I put ‘em on Mr. Board Member’s tab” she responds with a smooth shrug of one shoulder and a smirk. Before Rhys can protest she’s depositing two shots in front of each of them. “Bottoms up, nerds.”

They’re smashed by the time 10 rolls around, all on Rhys’s dime of course. His body is feeling heavy and pleasantly warm, a state exacerbated by the way all three of them are now smooshed together into one side of the booth, Rhys in the middle.

“So,” Vaughn slurs, smacking Rhys on his left arm, “gonna tell me where you were last night?”

“Getting laid I assume,” says Yvette, pretty collected other than her difficulty holding a drink steady. She handles her alcohol better than Rhys, and most _definitely_ better than Vaughn.

“Pfft, duh. Lookit the size of the hickies,” laughs Vaughn, poking him in the neck. “I just want to know who it is he’s so _ashamed_ of.”

Rhys scowls, already too warm from the booze to notice the increased flush to his cheeks at the memory of Jack on top of him. Okay, _inside of him._ He smacks Vaughn’s finger away testily, rubbing at the mark that peeks ever so slightly above his collar. Like Jack calculated exactly where to put it to make it look the most scandalous. “I was— Look, you don’t wanna know.” 

Yvette leans her head on his shoulder, nudging his leg with the toe of a boot. “Fess up, Rhys. I just told you all about my date with the HR girl. Vaughn told you about his failed rendezvous with Lola. So spill. Who’s the lucky fella?”

He worries his lip between his teeth, head far too busy and buzzy to come up with a proper excuse. Getting this drunk was a bad idea, because finally he plunks his head back against the wall. He’s been dying to tell somebody— anybody— if only to convince himself it’s actually a thing that’s happening. “Jack.” he admits quietly (or at least what he, in his inebriated state, perceives to be quiet.) He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and prepares for the blowback.

“You fucking WHAT!?” Yells Vaughn, fingers digging into his shoulder. Yvette’s head shoots up instantaneously.

He peeks out of one eye at Vaughn’s shocked face, cringeing. “IkindofmaybehadsexwithHandsomeJack?” 

“Ohhh my god bro,” Vaughn knocks over an empty glass with his elbow as he turns to face Rhys as much as he can, their knees bumping under the table. “You… With...”

“Well, this tops the time _I_ had sex at work” says Yvette, reaching for her drink.

There’s a long moment of silence.

“He didn’t… _Pressure_ you into it, right?” Whispers Vaughn after a moment. “Because that’s—“

“ _No._ No, I wanted to.” Admitting it while sloshed is much, much easier. “It’s been kind of building for… A while, I think.” He fiddles with the crumpled napkin in his lap.

Yvette leans in, elbowing his ribs a little too sharply. “So, is he any good? I feel like he talks a big game to overcompensate for something, right, like the Napoleon complex of dicks?

“Christ Yvette is that _really_ what you’re concerned about?” Asks Vaughn incredulously, leaning around Rhys to stare at her. “Our friend is boning probably _the_ most dangerous dude he could possibly bone, and he’s probably going to get murdered as soon as his blow-job quality falls off, and—“

“ _Stop saying I’m going to die_ ” moans Rhys, crossing his arms on the table and dropping his face onto them dejectedly. The sleeve of his shirt smells like liquor, which might explain why it’s a bit damp against his cheek. 

“I wouldn’t worry about his blow-job quality if he managed to get a board position, has to be pretty top notch. Rhys really has those DSLs…”

“No wonder he wants to take you with him on this mystery trip,” offers Vaughn thoughtfully. More silence.

“Hey,” Yvette sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning down to level her head with his. “Listen, do you like him?”

“I cannot believe we’re talking about the CEO like this…”

“ _Shh._ Shut up, Vaughn. Now, Rhys. Did it make you happy? Are you regretting it?” 

He manages to turn his face to her, starting to feel a bit dizzy. “Dunno.” He runs his metal fingers through his hair, managing to sit up with a bit of a sway, staring at the scratched table before him. “It’s not that simple. This trip- ‘M.” He swallows tightly. “I’m afraid people are going to get hurt. Innocent people, maybe.”

Vaughn pats him awkwardly on the knee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about man, but whatever it is…”

“No, what kind of person enjoys… _Being_ with someone like that.” He’s not totally naïve; no matter how Hyperion spins it, he knows that what they do hurts people on Pandora. He knows he’s been involved in deals and projects that indirectly messed up lives. He’s seen the charts on skull-shivers. It’s all been sold as progress, and to an extent he’s kind of _bought it_ god help him, and even if its wasn’t Hyperion doing these things it would just be one of the other big corporations. It’s every man for himself. But this…

He grips the dented metal of his arm nervously. His head is definitely swimming now, saliva thick in his mouth, and he has to close his eyes to stop the ceiling from spinning. He’s only half-aware of the words he’s saying. “I watch him kill people and it barely even bothers me, I was whiping a dude’s blood off my shoe the other day like it was just dried mud, and when he gets worked up like that it’s terrifying but honestly kinda _hot_ , and—”

“Aaaand I think it’s time to get you on the shuttle home,” interjects Yvette, taking him gently by the arm. “We can talk about this later. You look like you’re about to throw up on me, and this dress cost too damn much for that.”

He wakes some time ungodly early with a mouth as dry as cotton and one hell of a headache. He’s not sure how he made it into his bed, much less his pajamas.

Two weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI guys, I'm on over-time at work again, so if updates slow down a bit I really really apologize. I have a lot of very stressful things happening all at once. Keep in mind I also don't have a beta for this fic, so your constructive criticism is always appreciated to keep the quality up.
> 
> <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm still alive! Just very, very busy. Thank you guys for sticking around.
> 
> Also, big thanks to the wonderful [callmearcturus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus) for offering to act as beta for this and future chapters. If you haven't read their Borderlands work... Well, you're missing out.

The buildup to Pandora is unbearable.

Rhys makes himself busy to keep his mind off of things, to edge out the worry over how it will all play out. He’s doing his usual work for Jack, reports and scheduling and combing through the mountains of messages he receives daily to determine what Jack needs to see versus what he can handle on his own— but he _also_ starts looking into what his chair on the board means. Throwing his weight around a little, just a bit, just some personnel changes and requisitions for documents formerly above his pay-grade. He’s putting his feelers out. All his time in Jack’s office… He’s starting to understand how Hyperion really works, the minutiae.

He has some ideas. Smaller scale than anything Jack would care about, but ideas that he honestly thinks are _good_.

Jack… Doesn’t reference the trip again, other than making Rhys' daily target practice with his revolver mandatory. As if he wasn’t already doing it on the days he was able, the slight kickback in his hands now familiar and welcome whenever a corrosive shot tears through the target. The range is always quiet but for the ring of his gun, always releases the tension in his chest with each pull of the trigger. He’s not perfect, but he’s getting damn _good,_ good enough that the weight of the revolver at his shoulder gives him a new sureness throughout his day.

“You’re going to need it, pumpkin.” Jack croons into Rhys' ear the day before they’re supposed to leave, startling Rhys from behind as he’s clearing a stack of ECHO devices from his desk. Jack is pressed against his back, arm wrapped around Rhys' chest to ghost over his leather holster.

Rhys takes a moment to gather himself. Ever since he spent the night, Jack’s been handsy again. Not actually _initiating_ anything, which is peculiar considering what Jack had once said— that he wouldn’t be able to keep away once he’d fully _had_ him— just brushing up against him, grabbing his ass, once even leaning in mid-conversation just to _bite_ Rhys' neck. It’s driving him nuts. They both know that Jack could ask him over any night, could fuck him right on the _desk_ , and he’d do it. So why the games?

“I know,” he says defensively, managing to steady the pile of ECHOs before they fall. He shivers slightly as Jack’s hand slides up the shaft of the pistol through the holster, over the grip and up the strap of the harness. He leans back slightly, into Jack, fingers scraping over the top of the desk. It’s not like he can’t feel Jack’s arousal. It’s weird, for Jack to be restrained, and it’s only made him more nervous in his wait.

“Do you, kitten?” Jack rumbles into his ear, other hand gripping Rhys’ hip. “The camp’s fortified as it can be, don’t wanna attract undue attention y’know? Buuut, you can’t account for bandits. Or monsters. Or assassins.”

“ _I know._ ” Rhys insists, closing his eyes when Jack’s nose brushes the side of his jaw.

Jack pauses like that a moment, chin resting on Rhys’ shoulder. His hand slides from the holster strap back to Rhys' chest, dragging along the fabric of his shirt. “If you let yourself get shot again,” he says thoughtfully, and it’s really only then that Rhys registers Jack’s other hand probing at the ding in his metal arm, “I will fire you.”

He slaps Rhys on the ass and it’s back to work. Rhys takes it as more of Jack’s version of concern.

 

* * *

 

The moonshot down to Pandora makes Rhys feel like his teeth are going to rattle out of his head. He had assumed he’d be riding down with Jack, but he had assumed wrong, and it’s just him and a company car that hit the surface of Pandora at 11am on a Friday. Which means approximately jack-shit given Pandora’s 90 hour days, but the point is he had arrived at the office promptly this morning with luggage in hand expecting to see Jack. But Jack, apparently, had came down some time last night.

His eyes are still adjusting to the blazing sun, turning the car’s temperature control as low as he can, when Jack’s voice pops into his head. Perfectly timed, and slightly startling. Jack’s only been using the function to boss Rhys around remotely at work, so he’s learned to expect the sarcastic tones pulsing at his temples on Helios and not so much _here._

“Incredible. I’ve never seen somebody look so constipated in a moonshot.”

Rhys grimaces. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly a smooth ride.” He pauses, looking at his surroundings. Nothing; dust, dirt, the ridges of a rocky outcropping in the distance. “And how can you see my _face_ with a video feed coming from my eye?”

Jack snickers. “Yeah, well, lucky guess. Now listen, sugar. The camp’s coordinates are programmed into that car already.”

Rhys is tapping through the navigation menu on the slick center console before Jack even finishes, ignoring the smell of what can only be skag-shit that is somehow already filtering through the car’s fan system. He passes through a few security measures, passwords and finger scan, and finally the coordinates pop up. He puts it in drive and hits the gas.

“And why couldn’t I land closer to the camp?” He asks somewhat irritably as he steers around a small scraggly group of plants with all the finesse of a sledgehammer. Admittedly, he feels _kind of_ badass with the ridged steering-wheel slipping through his fingers and the scenery of Pandora flying past his window. Things feel different, this time.

“ _Duh,_ the paths of my moon-shots aren’t totally untraceable you dingus. ‘Top-secret’ generally means _I don’t want assholes finding it._ Now get your ass over here.”

There’s never _actually_ any way to know that Jack’s tuned out of his head, but Rhys still imagines the click of an ECHO cutting out.

He tears through the Pandoran desert, watching the dust kick up behind him in his rearview, keeping his mind off of the creature he’s going to be residing only yards away from for the next several days. It take a couple of hours before he’s finally approaching the flashing white diamond r on his map, and by then the flat of the desert has rolled into varying cuts of towering red cliff. He’s driving much slower there, trying to make sense of the topographical features marked out on his dash-map, carefully avoiding tearing out the undercarriage on any unseen jags of rock.

The camp is nestled against the side of one of the cliffs, centered where the valley dips at its base. Crowds of tents and the easy-assemble buildings Hyperion uses in temporary set-ups like this, all surrounded by what Rhys guesses is electric fencing and a dotting of defense towers. Big enough to be formidable and undesirable to any passing bandits, and for Rhys to be genuinely impressed Jack diverted the resources with no one noticing. But small enough that it doesn’t seem like one of Hyperion’s _core_ bases of operation by any stretch of the imagination.

Once he’s through the decent security at the main gate a Hyperion soldier takes his ride off to the motorpool while another acts as his guide, and soon Rhys is left standing outside of one of the smaller sheet-metal buildings with rucksack in-hand. It’s deep enough in the camp to be nearly up against the cliff wall, and as Rhys knocks uncertainly he eyes a gaping black cave mouth off to his left uneasily.

The door _fwishes_ open almost instantly, and there’s Jack, stripped down to his usual button-up white shirt, Hyperion yellow peeking out underneath. The sleeves are bunched up his arms as far as they’ll go, and he grins as he gestures Rhys inside. “Welcome aboard, kiddo.”

These are Jack’s personal quarters, apparently, and again not what Rhys would expect from the man. Definitely comfortable, but not exactly lavish. The most ridiculous luxury would probably be the king sized bed in the room’s far corner, but besides that there’s just a desk and state-of-the-art computer terminal, Jack’s usual mess of papers, mugs, and ECHOs, a few storage lockers and a heavy looking silver trunk.

“I haven’t been here to clean up after you,” Rhys says wryly, pointing at one of the amalgamations of trash that has taken over a workbench. Jack’s paranoia is to the point where he probably won’t let anyone in here to clean, considering his obsession with the project.

Jack shrugs. “You are now, cupcake!” He squeezes Rhys by the shoulder, clearly excited by his arrival. “C’mon, drop your stuff here. I wanna show you the camp.” Jack shoulders past him and out the door, an owner expecting his favorite dog to follow.

Rhys sighs, tossing his rucksack in the corner and spinning to follow. No chance to rest, then, to enjoy the air-conditioning or see where he’ll be staying (he’s anticipating a rock-hard cot. No king bed for _him._.) Straight to the part he’s dreading.

It really doesn’t take too long for Jack to give Rhys a basic tour of the facilities; a fair amount of the camp is just housing for the various scientists, technicians and soldiers. Jack introduces Rhys to several people in turn, all of whom he gathers are more-or-less in charge of the mini-departments here. “He’s your boss,” Jack tells all of them, “not like, as much as _I’m_ your boss. But do what he says.” Everybody looks a bit nervous, all of the hands Rhys shakes are limp and sweaty.

“No-one’s been off this base since the beginning,” Jack explains as they walk back towards his quarters. It’s around mid-day now, still blazing hot. Rhys has his vest off, sleeves rolled up like Jack’s. “Other than a direct line to me there are no comm-lines out. All the shit that gets leaked on Helios, I don’t need that here. Half these people don’t even know what we’re doing, just the scientists. Everyone else just does their job. I caught a guy who’d rigged an ECHO device to talk to his family the other day.”

Rhys glances at him guardedly. “So what did you do?”

“Set him on fire. Maybe a bit drastic, but I’d skipped lunch and one of the guards was carrying a flamethrower next to me, so. Y’know.” Jack shrugs. The skin around his mask is beaded with sweat. “But hey! His family got a pretty sizeable life-insurance pay-out, so, silver-lining and all.”

Rhys is still grimacing when he realizes they’re _passing_ Jack’s quarters; heading towards the cave entrance he’d noticed on his arrival. Despite his long legs he has to quicken his pace a bit to draw even with Jack. “Uhhh. Where to now?”

Jack looks at him from the corner of his eye. “Duh, what _haven’t_ I shown you yet? What’s the whole fucking purpose of this shit show?”

Rhys frowns. Right.

The cave tunnel flicks to life when they walk in, lit by strings of lights every dozen feet or so. Rhys follows Jack silently down the path, stomach tightening. By the time they’re through the security team at the other end of the tunnel- tough looking men and women who move to search Rhys and step back like they’ve been shocked when Jack shoots them a glare- Rhys is almost certain the ground is vibrating up through his boots.

Then they’re there. The facility Rhys had seen on the video feed in Jack’s office; now he can see that the electric cage is surrounded also by a reinforced glass tank, that it’s all located in a massive cavern. The scientists are there in their lab-coats, shuffling between the consoles, checking the eridium pump and typing away furiously at ECHO pads.

“Peterson!” Jack booms, and one of the scientists spins around with a look of pure terror on his face. He hurries over to where they stand, a short pudgy man in his fifties, rounded shoulders and male pattern baldness. The picture on his name tag shows a very different man, one who’s smiling cheerily, rosy-cheeked. Rhys guesses that it’s Jack making him this nervous, so when he actually looks Jack in the eye before speaking it’s impressive.

“Yes, yes, s-sir?”

Jack snorts, crossing his arms. “Try not to piss yourself, _Christ._ Where’s my baby at? Don’t see the damn thing.” Jack’s right, Rhys can’t see anything beyond the crackling bars of the cage. The fluorescent lamps in the “lab” cast a sphere of light about fifteen feet deep, but beyond that it’s pitch black.

Peterson glances at Rhys nervously before answering, and he tries to offer a small but reassuring smile. “W-w-well sir, the subject is aslee— Asleep. We just had a round of dosing a-and Alice tends to be tired f-for a while afterwards.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Alice.” He says flatly.

Peterson tries to smile, but his lips just keep twitching and pursing. “Sorry, t-that’s what the team has b-been calling her. Easier tha-than her classification number.”

Jack rolls his eyes heavenward like he bears the weight of eternal suffering, sighing before waving a hand at Peterson. “Look, just hit the lights. I want to show Rhys here. By the way, Rhys, this sniveling man-child is Peterson. He’s heading the cybernetics team for this project.”

Rhys smiles apologetically, raising his right hand in greeting. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Jack’s—“ _slave_ “—Personal assistant.”

The man’s stare freezes on Rhys' arm, then flicks to Rhys' temple, presumably the neural port there. Something lights up behind the pinched eyes.

Jack claps his hands forcefully. “Today, please!” And Peterson blinks and tears his gaze away, nodding hurriedly. “Y-y-yes sir, yes” and scurries off.

“You don’t have to be so mean to the guy,” Rhys whispers to Jack, crossing his arms and watching as Peterson goes from scientist to scientist, gesturing at where they stand and then pointing towards the depths of the cage.

“Oh for fucks sake princess, I’m not being _mean._ Peterson’s smart, he just needs to buck up. Now _watch._ ”

Somebody throws one of several switches in a long metal console, and the floodlights flicker on in turn until the entirety of the cavern is lit. Jack starts walking, and Rhys follows.

“See that?” Jack asks, point towards the cage as they walk around the makeshift lab area and turn the tank’s corner. The cave wall is to their left, craggy and brown, and to their right is the cage’s contents, filled with various flora presumably taken from this stalker’s native environments. Rhys has to squint but he finally does see something, a large dark shape further ahead and near the cage bars. They stop when they’ve drawn even with it, separated only by about ten feet of tank wall and metal bars. “Gorgeous,” Jack says with pleasure. Rhys shudders.

It’s even bigger than he had guessed from the video. It’s curled up, side swelling and falling with the gentle rhythm of sleep, iridescent scales shifting color beneath the lights with each expansion of its rib-cage. It’s big enough it could crush them just by stepping on them, could knock them aside like nothing. He has to turn his head to look down the length of its spine, to where the head and tail disappear around its other side.

“Jesus.” He murmurs through a dry mouth. The stalker suddenly flickers to invisibility, and Rhys can’t help stepping back in alarm. There’s a translucent ripple through the air where it is, like an oil-slick, and then it’s _there_ again, still asleep.

“Stalkers usually camouflage when they sleep,” Jack remarks, eyes shining with pride as he stares at the beast. His hips are canted forward in confidence, stance wide. “Something about this one- the eridium, or something, its camouflage has been on the fritz. The eggheads over there are working on that one.” It flickers in and out of visibility again, makes some kind of hiss in its sleep as it shifts a webbed flank, sending a chill down Rhys' spine.

“Jack,” he says quietly, looking over at his boss. The man he’s been… Having _some_ kind of affair with, whether it means anything or not. “What are you going to _do_ with it?”

Jack turns his face to him, tearing his eyes from the creature. His brow furrows in confusion, probably at Rhys' obvious lack of enthusiasm. “Well what do you think? What have I been doing from the beginning? I’m going to clean up this hellhole. Make it actually _habitable_ , not just some place to get robbed and murdered and eaten by rakk.”

Rhys swallows. He knows the Hyperion propaganda as good as anyone— better, even, considering his blind worship of Handsome Jack back in the beginning. Pandora is a planet of monsters, not just the fauna but the people themselves, all bandits and rapists as far as Jack was concerned. That was how employees on Helios could make the kinds of deals they did and still sleep at night.

But in Rhys' brief time here… Sure, Sasha and Fiona _were_ actually thieves, and they’d had their disagreements, but he still didn’t feel they were bad people. He’d seen the data himself, now, on the communities Hyperion had ravaged, _peaceful_ ones that scraped by and kept bandits out.

“There are innocent people here.” He says finally after gathering his courage, turning to meet Jack’s eyes. He has to say it. His chest is tight with nerves, but his fingers clench and he continues. “You can’t just _kill_ everyone Jack, you can’t just… That would be a massacre.” Jack looks taken aback by the outburst, eyebrows up and head jerked back slightly. “I’m not the most moral guy out there, I’ve made some shady deals, but that… That’s _not_ being a hero.” He finishes, eyes dropping to Jack’s boots.

There’s a long pause. Rhys focuses on his own breathing, listens to the gentle rumbles of the creature to their right.

“Who the _fuck_ said I was going to kill _everybody?_ ” Jack says finally, eyebrow cocked.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a late update. I'm getting settled here in Scotland, so writing time is scarce. But that doesn't mean I don't want to be doing it!

Jack stares at him piercingly. “You think I’m, what, going to murder everyone on Pandora?”

Rhys swallows, scratching the back of his head, the fine strands already coated in the native grit. “That’s… Isn’t it what you wanted to do? Before?” When Jack had been gone— well, that was when some of the rumors leaked up from Pandora. About what he’d really wanted in that other vault, what he’d died for. Hushed whispers over espresso.

There’s another moment of Jack searching his face tensely before he swivels his head back to the stalker, crossing his arms. There’s a twitch in the side of his jaw.

“Kid,” he begins after a moment, one finger tapping where it rests on his arm. “You remember how I fucking _died_ there for a while, right?”

“Uh… Yeah.”

“Well, dying? It’s kind of a… Lesson.” The word leaves Jack’s tongue with a struggle, distaste plain in the way tongue presses to teeth in its formation. He rolls his shoulders. “Even for a genius like me. Not that I’m saying I was _wrong,_ or that I’m like _sorry_ or anything, because that’s stupid.”

There’s another long pause, but Rhys waits patiently, folding his arms. When Jack goes on a tangent, it’s best to be quiet and listen. Let him get it all out. Jack steps closer to the enclosure, the idea of which frankly makes Rhys’s skin crawl, and he leans against it with one fist on the thick clear shatter-proof material. The stalker’s eye slits open ever so slightly, rolls in its head before shutting again, and Rhys’s breath catches in his throat. His ECHOeye is throwing up all kinds of warnings, all kinds of “unknown species” dialogues as it rolls through stats on the bio-signature. He’s been letting it all run in the background, but he closes it as Jack resumes, forehead tilted against the glass.

“I had— I had some things _taken_ from me that I will never, _never_ forget or forgive. So, y’know. No fucking _apologies_ here.” Rhys inches forward, not quite to the tank wall but at the right angle to see the side of Jack’s face. It’s got that overwhelmingly serious look, the one Jack gets when he’s knee deep in data and empty coffee cups. “But, see, I _did_ realize why I died. These people— giving them a utopia like Opportunity, keeping them safe, yadda yadda. That wasn’t enough. They didn’t, ah, _appreciate_ when some of their friends died, right?”

Rhys hides a smirk at the understatement. This is what passes for humble with Jack, slightly less bravado and about as close to genuine as he gets without bashing someone’s brains in.

“So this time, we’re taking the path of _less_ resistance. Maybe not least, but less. There are bandit camps here that _no one_ is going to miss. Groups of people that live only to murder, rape, pillage. There’s plenty of scum in the bumfuck little towns, too, but they’re mixed in. So we’re starting off easy, with the _real_ backwoods dickholes.”

It takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in.

Not a massacre, then. Jack murdering some people, sure, but the key word was _some_ , and he’s not getting on a high horse about wiping out some _actual_ bandits.

It’s an immediate relief, but as he thinks about it, watching Jack watch the stalker, he begins to realize. Wiping out the bandits… Wouldn’t that be a very short-term solution? That’s _part_ of Pandora’s problem, but as long as the planet’s like this—economy wrecked after Dahl’s retraction, scrambling with little resources and less real support— won’t things just continue on as they have? 

His mind is just starting to pick up with the possibilities when whatever mood Jack was in ends, and he shoves off the glass. They grey streak in his hair flops as he turns to Rhys and throws his arms wide, broad chest thrust out. “So! You’ve had the tour now! Welcome to Pandora, kiddo.” He drops his arms. “Well, welcome _back_ to Pandora.”

“Thanks? I mean, you know I _love_ it here…” The sarcasm drips. He’s going to think about this later; maybe even put some Helios people on logistics for some of the rough ideas already sprouting in his head. But for now he tables that, falls into stride as Jack begins walking back towards the science team.

Jack snickers and slings an arm around Rhys’s shoulders. Rhys may _technically_ be taller, but his unfortunate tendency to slump and Jack’s overall _presence_ always make him feel small under the toned arm. “Hey, lucky for me you didn’t fall in love with the place, or I’d still be bits of data bouncing around in there.”

The scientists all do their level best not to look like they’re staring. Seeing Jack touch someone in what might be construed as a “friendly” manner is probably a bit alarming to them. 

Peterson hurries up to them, hands clasped at his front in a way that reminds Rhys of the dwarf hamster he’d had as a child. “Is there anything else, s-s-sir?” His wet eyes flick to Rhys, then back to Jack. “Did you want a d-d-emo today?”

Normally this is about the point Jack would let his arm slide from Rhys— got to look scary when dealing with subordinates. Instead he seems to lean further against him, other hand on his hip. “Not right now, Peterson. But could you guys do _something_ about that flickering junk? It’s supposed to be a stalker, stalkers go invisible and _stay that way._ Unless you’re trying to give me a goddamn seizure.”

Peterson nods seriously, his hands fidgeting. “I assure you sir, we’re working on it. Alic— I mean, the s-s-subject’s camouflage glands. The eridium treatments seem to b-b-be inhibiting the production of some of the key chemicals and...”

Jack sighs, finally taking his arm away after a quick squeeze to Rhys’s shoulder. Frankly, Rhys is slightly relieved— even in the shade of the cave, he’s warm. He wonders balefully if these computers have their own cooling systems, and why the rest of the place can’t be the same.

“Fine, whatever, don’t care. Just get it done. I’m not paying you per stutter.” Rhys winces at the comment. 

Peterson nods “Yes, w-well, we’ll fix it. We’re t-t-testing fixes on the stalker pack in sub-cave B b-before we implement anything.” Again Rhys is impressed when the man fails to wilt under Jack’s glare despite his obvious nerves. The other scientists do their best to look busy, to pretend they aren’t listening in.

“Yeah, do. Tomorrow I _will_ be expecting a demo, so have it up and ready next time.”

Rhys can’t help feeling that Peterson stares at him again as they head for the exit. But if he’s a cybernetics guy, as Jack says… It must just be professional interest.

It’s about mid-day, and Jack has given him no indication of his purpose here. Not that he isn’t thrilled at the implications of being trusted, but the curiosity is still killing him. “Where are we going?” 

“My quarters.” Jack says simply.

Rhys’s eyes flick to Jack. “Your quar—“

“— _My quarters,_ ” Jack repeats.

Workers watch them curiously as they hustle by. Jack opens the door with a quick facial scan, and as soon as they’re both in with the door shut behind them he turns to Rhys. He leans back against his desk on the opposite wall, kicking one ankle across the other casually. There’s a smudge of ruddy Pandoran dirt on Jack’s dress shirt. It’s strange seeing him stripped of his usual layers.

“Sooo, what did you think?” Jack asks expectantly.

Rhys isn’t sure why they needed to come to Jack’s quarters to discuss this, but he goes with it, pursing his lips. It’s hot outside and he’s grateful for the cold blast of AC. “Well… I’m not sure? It was just sleeping, so… Kind of hard to get a sense of anything.” He tosses his vest on a nearby chair, which is already covered in an assortment of garbage.

Jack clicks his tongue impatiently. “No, princess. I mean what do you think of the overall project. I’ve been waiting to hear your opinion and you haven’t said squat other than, like, ‘weh weh don’t kill people’.”

The mime Jack does during this impression is vaguely insulting, but Rhys still blinks in surprise at the request. Jack’s been asking for Rhys’s opinion more and more in the office, sure, but he gets the sense that beneath the teasing he’s pretty desperate to know this time.

He thinks for a moment. “Well, honestly?”

Jack nods, arms crossing.

“I don’t understand why you’re so invested in it. It seems like it would be easier to just send teams of Hyperion soldiers to clear out the bandits, right? The stalker… It’s pretty incredible, what you showed me on that video feed of it being controlled. But how reliable is that? And all the money it’s draining, the amount of eridium you have to use…”

No response. Jack’s face is dead still, neutral.

Rhys shifts nervously, looking down and adjusting his tie. Time to be diplomatic about it. “But listen, Jack, what do I know…”

Jack leans forward, pointing forcefully. “Nuh-uh, don’t retract and start with the yes-man bullshit. I asked because I want to know.” He pushes off the desk, stopping to stand about a foot from Rhys, hands on hips. “Hyperion soldiers are easier, yeah, sure. But remember that whole thing about me killing slightly _less_ people?”

Rhys blinks, nods his head skeptically.

“Yeah, well, no need wasting all the personnel it would take. Not that I wouldn’t do it in a heartbeat if I thought I _needed to_ , I don’t actually give a shit, it’s what they’re paid for. But why not send something the bandits are terrified of already? Something that can wipe out twice as many bandits as a fleet of Hyperion soldiers, and something that I can keep making _more_ of. Is it expensive? I mean, kinda, yeah. That eridium could be sold or put to other uses. But this plan is A. Incredibly badass and awesome, and B. I can have _one man_ controlling several of the things at once. That gauntlet you saw in the vid, that’s just a prototype. We’re on the verge of something much more reliable, and something that will require a _fraction_ of the manpower. And this technology has so-ho-hoo many applications, I’ll be making money hand-over-fist from _that_ side of things.”

Jack moves to Rhys’s side, slinging an arm around him and moving it down so that his hand rests on Rhys’s hip. “Also, have I mentioned that I’m like, the richest?” He murmurs conspiratorially, tugging at Rhys’s hip so that he stumbles closer into the press of his side. “Because I am. The richest.”

Rhys’s face flushes much too easily. This is the kind of game Jack’s been playing all week, but now they’re alone in Jack’s sleeping quarters and Jack’s thumb is circling the jut of his hip.

Jack frowns. “Jeez, what’s up with being so _stiff_ all the time kitten?” His hand trails up and down his back, comforting with an edge of suggestion. “Every time I touch you it’s like you turn into a board. Y’know, til I get your cock out, _then_ you tend to soften up— _figuratively at least_ , definitely not literally, but…”

Rhys huffs slightly, pulling away abruptly and moving to fumble with his bag in the corner as if he’s looking for something. Really he’d just like to hide his face from Jack’s insistent stare, from the spiced smell of Jack’s cologne mixing with sweat. “I’m not used to being touched so much, okay?” He takes the top layer of clothing out, pretends he’s found what he was looking for, stuffs it all back in. He’s never been smooth about these kinds of things, which is perhaps why he’s never dated people all that long. Like the more they get close to him, the less he knows how to act.

“Alright, alright, simmer down.”

Rhys turns in annoyance at the patronizing tone, expecting Jack to be behind him, stalking up on him, the way he usually does. Instead there’s a creak as Jack sits down at the end of his stupidly large bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his spread legs. 

“So, you don’t like it?” He asks flatly, resting his chin on one hand. Rhys studies the band of his tattoo instead of looking him in the eye.

“I didn’t… say that.” He manages. His fingers find their way to the dent in his arm, again. It gives his hands something to do. Jack’s lips curl at one side.

“Then what’s the problem? Scared of big bad Jack?”

Rhys pretends to consider it. “I mean, yeah, kind of.” He says, only half-joking. Not that he really thinks Jack would hurt him at this point, but the saturation of frenetic energy that surrounds him is always a tad intimidating. Like a physical wall Rhys feels himself butting up against when they’re close.

“I wanted to choke you to death or something, I would’ve done it,” Jack says as he scoots back the width of the bed until he’s leaning against the metallic wall, pulling off his shoes in the process and tossing them aside with a thunk. Rhys watches, getting an inkling of why they’re back at Jack’s quarters halfway through the day.

Jack’s eyes roll. “Be a good boy and come here.” He points at his lap. 

It’s almost reflex now, to come when called. Rhys drops his hand from his arm, stepping across the room. He pauses at the edge of the bed awkwardly, fumbling to remove his shoes, unable to resist a grimace at rust-colored dirt accumulating in the ridges of skag-skin. When he’s done he climbs up, stopping to stare at Jack dumbly. 

Jack points at his lap again, more forcefully this time, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes like Rhys is completely inconveniencing him right now.

“Uh, so…” Rhys scoots forwards on his knees, Jack waving him on until he finds himself with a leg on either side of Jack’s lap.

“Sit down,” Jack orders, slapping Rhys on the hip. He obeys again, sinking somewhat shakily until he’s straddling Jack fully, legs folded to the side so that his bent knees stick behind Jack and against the wall.

“Getting a bit better at listening to orders,” Jack comments, wresting his thumbs in the loops of Rhys’s pants. The way he smiles send Rhys’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. It’s a good look for him, just the dress shirt with the sleeves bunched up to show his masculine forearms. Nothing like Rhys’s own delicate limbs. “Now take off the holster, and then your shirt.”

Rhys swallows, managing to get his holster off despite the awkward angle he’s sitting at, although it’s probably not graceful and the weight of the pistol slaps into his ear at one point as he shrugs it off. He leans to place it carefully to the side, unable to be anything but reverent of the expensive gift, and Jack makes a noise of satisfaction. Next is his shirt, which he unbuttons quickly. When he’s done, Jack takes it and tosses it across the room. 

“Now,” he says, running his hands up Rhys’s sides, tilting his head back against the wall. “We’re gonna fix this little problem, m’kay pumpkin? As much fun as it is tormenting you around the office, when we’re _alone_ ,” his right hand stops to rub a circle over Rhys’s nipple, which isn’t particularly sensitive but still makes Rhys’s stomach quiver, “… I want you to relax a bit more. Can you do that?”

Rhys nods jerkily, feeling Jack’s hardness pressing against him from below. “Y-yeah. I think.”

Jack nods. “Good. Don’t think too much, that’s not what you’re here for.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Well, not the _main_ reason, at the moment.” His hand slides around and up, to the back of Rhys’s neck. “I’ve had a long morning whipping these assholes back into shape, because as soon as I leave for Helios they consistently begin fucking up again. Need you here looking pretty for me so that I don’t barbeque anymore people.”

His other hand ghosts over the seam of where Rhys’s flesh meets metal, eyes trailing over Rhys’s features before tipping his mouth into a kiss. This time Rhys is a bit more prepared to spread his lips when Jack licks at them. The ball of anxiety that Rhys carries around in his chest, the one he’s used to enough that he doesn’t notice it until it’s gone, it relaxes as he closes his eyes and breathes a sigh.

Jack begins undoing his belt. 

“Mm, see, it’s not so bad when I touch you, is it?” Jack asks, as Rhys presses down into his lap without thinking. His right hand continues to move over Rhys, mirroring the types of gropes he makes throughout the day on Helios. Rhys makes a vague “mm” noise, grinding down again when Jack sucks at his jaw.

Jack’s laugh is warm in his ear. “I asked you a question, pumpkin,” Jack says before taking him by both hips, pulling Rhys down at the same time he grinds up. 

Rhys shudders, letting his eyes fall shut and his forehead bump Jack’s. “ _No,_ ” he admits breathily. 

It goes on like that, Jack kissing Rhys until he can’t form thoughts, can’t consider much but the wonderful warmth of it, and eventually Jack makes them stop to get undressed. Gets Rhys back in his lap again, but naked this time and dripping lube from where Jack has prepared him.

And he’s crouched above Jack, open and wanting and waiting for Jack to pull him down. To take. He meets Jack’s gaze pleadingly. But Jack just smirks up at him, runs his knuckles over the tensed muscle in Rhys’s thigh. “What are you waiting for?”

And so he uses his human hand to position Jack, and he sinks down. Takes for himself. Leans into Jack’s neck to muffle a cry, not because he wasn’t ready, but because he’s so _so_ ready. When Jack grins into his neck and rolls his hips up he groans “bastard” against the clasp of his mask.

Jack keeps him moving slow and steady like that, rising and falling so that Jack sinks in deep. His hands remain on Rhys’ hips, bracing him when it gets to be _too much_ and he’s leaning against Jack as much as he can. 

There are murmured encouragements— strange, the lack of harshness, the lack of sarcasm to the pet-names. It’s all much slower than the first time, much more heated. “That’s it Rhysie, thaaat’s it,” or “god cupcake, perfect. So perfect.” The burn in Rhys’s thighs from moving himself up and down is deep, blossoming, and his knees are stiff where they bend. 

But it’s all in the background when he comes, a stuttering moan. Jack keeps guiding his hips up and down, up and down even though he’s shaking too badly to do it on his own, and then thrusts up into him until he reaches his own end with a grunt. 

They stay like that, slumped together against the wall, until Rhys is wincing from the ache in his knees. 

“Alright, alright. Lay down,” Jack says eventually, slapping him on the ass. Rhys swings his leg over and hisses at the sudden rush of blood, rubbing at the tenseness in his thigh. He’s never ridden somebody for so long before, not for the whole time, and pulling himself up to the pillow to stretch out his legs fully is a relief. 

Jack snorts, climbing up to lie next to him in the cool tangle of sheets. He reaches with one hand to fiddle with the switches in the wall above them, and the lights flick out. The dim glow of the computer terminal is the only thing lighting the room. 

“It’s not even night-time,” Rhys objects, remembering the smattering of ECHOs he’d hope to answer in his free-time. In particular there was a message from Cyrus, something about new proposals for accounting protocol. 

“Night-time here isn’t for, like, another two days.” Jack answers, draping an arm in the dip below Rhys’ ribcage. He tries to avoid shifting, the metal ridged plating of his right arm already pressing uncomfortably into his flesh. Plus, there’s like, stuff… Leaking out of him, currently.

“So… Should I go to my room now, or?”

Jack snorts. “This _is_ your room, idiot.”

Rhys’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. It… is?”

“I’m not _keeping separate quarters for you_ when you’re only here part of the time, dumbass. Now take off your frickin’ arm, you’re not hiding those winces. And then _nap time_.”

Rhys removes his arm, shoulder couplings popping free easily and wire grouping unplugged. He climbs into the bed again and sleeps, Jack on one side, his revolver in its holster on the other.

This time when he wakes up, Jack is still there.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole "new country/grad school" thing still has me busy, but I have not forgotten you all <3
> 
> Once again callmearcturus proves to be the fastest beta in the West

When they wake, Rhys is startled to find that their little “nap” hadn’t just lasted through the day, but on into the next morning. His HUD helpfully informs him that it’s past 8am by Helios time. Of course despite the pleasant chill in here, Pandora’s 90 hour days mean the sun has been blazing away in its perch all the while.

At least he’d made a trip to the attached washroom to clean up at some point, so there’s no unpleasant stickiness. But it _has_ been well over 14 hours since his last meal, and a few minutes lying awake makes it very apparent that his stomach is not happy.

“Jack,” he hisses finally, after the pronounced growls of his stomach fail to wake the other man. He props himself up on his left elbow, kicking at Jack’s hairy calves under the blanket. They’d gone for another round at some point— after Rhys had woken up to Jack grinding lazily against his ass, blunt fingertips pressing into his hips irresistibly— and it seems to have taken its toll on the older man.

Jack grunts. He shifts with a deep inhale, stretching a hand over to pat Rhys on the flank as if he’s a particularly trusty horse. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, babe, but as good at sex as I am, I need some time to recharge.”

Rhys rolls his eyes, sinking back to the pillow. Supporting himself without the usual weight of his other arm always feels awkward. “No, it’s just that we’ve been sleeping forever.” Jack makes an unconcerned “mm” of acknowledgement.

“I’m hungry.” Rhys admits when he remembers that Jack doesn’t particularly care about normal sleeping habits. Knowing him, he’s been running on coffee and sugar all week and this is the first real sleep he’s gotten. No response. “Look, I might eat _you_ here in a minute if we don’t get up.”

Jack sighs, finally rolling over and opening one eye to regard Rhys before prying open the other and sitting up. He reaches to the panel to flick the lights on, stretching. “Alright, I’ll admit I could _murder_ some waffles right now. And if you lose any more weight I might not be able to see you anymore, so y’know. Let’s get some food.”

Jack orders breakfast to be brought over through an intercom system built into the same panel of buttons as the lights. Rhys is kind of expecting it to be left outside the door since Jack makes no move to get dressed. Instead, when the unlucky mess-hall server knocks, Jack seems incredibly too pleased to buzz them in so that they can set the tray on his desk. Which has Rhys scrambling under the covers like a kid avoiding monsters, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

He sits up as soon as the door closes behind the embarrassed employee, balancing with his left hand as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Christ Jack, d’you really think it’s a good idea to have random people seeing this?” He stands and scoops his detached arm from the desk, ignoring the way Jack lays propping his head up in one hand, body stretched like a Greek statue. He’s leering at Rhys unapologetically, which is really the only way Jack does leer.

“What, like they thought I had you staying in my quarters for an innocent slumber party? What’s your cover, that we were in here painting our nails and gossiping? Everyone’s been stuck here for months, pumpkin, the place is a rumor mill, and there’re no guest tents or anything. Hate to spoil the illusion for you, but everyone _knows_ we were fucking in here. Looks weak to try and hide it, makes them think I _give a shit_ what they think.”

Rhys sits on the edge of the bed, back to Jack, and starts the process of re-socketing his arm. It’s always a bit difficult for him without the wall rack Vaughn had built him to keep it stationary while he reconnects everything, and his struggle with it only makes the annoyance in his voice more audible. “Yeah, well, I still don’t… It’s embarrassing, for one, and if you really want my help here I don’t need people thinking I’m their boss just because—“

He’s startled when Jack kneels behind him, steadying his arm with one hand and pressing at the shoulder with his palm. The rotator ball at the top of his arm clicks into the first position of his artificial socket, still extended enough to allow access to the bunches of wires that need connected.

“Um, thanks.” He manages, somewhat flustered. Jack is already plugging the wires back into their various ports, broad fingers surprisingly deft.

“Sooner we get you back together, the sooner I get to bury myself in that pile of waffles,” he says dismissively, pressing Rhys' arm home into the final position of the socket, sucked in to nestle amongst the soft silicon cups and held tightly in place by the automatic catch system.

Rhys can’t remember to be angry, because it’s the first time anyone other than Vaughn or Lisa has helped with his arm in a way that isn’t patronizing. As they tuck into their breakfast, pulling on clothes first to avoid any unfortunate coffee burns, Jack starts rambling about some new venture on Aquator and Rhys tries to hide his pleasure at the way his perfect hair actually looks _messy_ for once.

* * *

 

Just as Jack had promised, they return to the cave for a demo of the stalker being controlled. It goes about how Rhys had expected. One of the scientists (Peterson, surprisingly,) breaks out the gauntlet he’d seen on the surveillance footage. Up close it looks incredibly _heavy_ , thick and metal as far as Rhys can tell. Clear slats show a mesh of wires within, and a miniature ECHOscreen laid flat into the back. The knuckles are jointed in a method similar to his arm, but less sleek. Almost rudimentary in appearance.

“It’s a prototype.” Jack reminds him. Still, when Peterson tests the thing’s fit with a flex of his fingers, it’s apparent that the joints function fluidly.

Peterson goes through the sealed door, into the confines of the tank, but without breaching the barred portion of the cage. Still, much much closer than Rhys would want to be, in amongst the greenery with bladed leaves brushing dew over his dress pants. What follows is more of what he saw on the cam feed, although this time the stalker isn’t plugged in to the eridium tubes— it’s already had its “dosage” for the day.

Again, it follows the general sway of Peterson’s gestures, muscles rippling in waves. Rhys isn’t sure exactly how the glove’s movements map to the creature’s, but it makes him nervous the way the stalker’s head tics to the side right before following a command. When it gives a snap of its massive jaws, the needle-like teeth glint even from this distance.

“Well?” Jack asks, crossing his arms and looking sideways at Rhys. “This time I _am_ asking what you think of the actual stalker, pumpkin.” He quirks an eyebrow and leans closer. “Like, are we talking awesome? Really flipping sweet? Or just plain badass?” Peterson comes back through the tank’s seal to the polite applause of the other scientists, beaming despite the sweat on his brow.

Rhys can’t keep his lips from cracking into a smile at Jack’s childlike enthusiasm. “I’ll give it a solid ‘totally rad.’” Now that he knows it’s not some kind of genocide project, it’s a bit easier to humor the CEO.

Jack’s lips quirk with pleasure as he opens his mouth to respond, and that’s when his wristband goes off. He puts up a finger and looks down, mouth slanting in discontent at whatever data trails across the screen. “Fucking _numbskulls!_ ” He mutters, throwing up a hand. “I’m surrounded by numbskulls. I could hire a bunch of bullymongs instead and the ratio of money paid to shit thrown would _still_ be a better deal.”

“Is… everything okay?” Rhys ventures. “Like, nobody’s dead or anything?”

Jack laughs dryly. “Ohhh, not _yet_ unfortunately.” He drops his wrist after tapping something into the small screen. “Look kitten, some douche on perimeter patrol decided it’d be fun to take potshots at some spiderants, and in the process he managed to attract about four colonies to our front-door.” Rhys raises his eyebrows in alarm. “Nah, nah, don’t worry, the turrets are picking ‘em off, but I’ve got to go direct the clean-up of this little mess before they somehow make it _worse._ You’ve got access to my quarters, why don’t you do whatever upkeep you need to do for Helios and I’ll see you tonight.”

Ah, yes. Despite making Rhys come down here, he still has the usual responsibilities to see to, because with the mass of random crap Jack’s put him in charge of it’s a bit hard to delegate everything completely. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

“’Atta boy.” Jack winks and slaps him on the shoulder before heading for the exit.

“And don’t kill anyone!” Rhys calls after him. “It’s bad for morale.” Jack waves a hand dismissively and disappears through the mouth of the tunnel.

He sighs, turning back to the cage and crossing his arms thoughtfully. He feels strangely— well, good. Optimistic. He knows it can’t last, but last night was… Nice. And he’s already thinking again about how to help Jack revitalize Pandora. Too soon to tell him his ideas, but once he returns various ECHOs and signs off on some things for Helios, maybe he can spend the rest of the evening doing some preliminary research on the terminal in Jack’s room.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice to his right. He’s startled out of his thoughts by Peterson, who’s at his elbow looking up at him again through the thick bottle glasses. “Rhys, right? C-could I possibly, possibly t-talk to you for a moment?” His hands twitch nervously.

“Um.” Rhys' eyes flick to the exit tunnel momentarily. He has no idea what the little man could want from him, honestly. Maybe he’d needed to speak to Jack, and after his abrupt exit Rhys is the next best thing. He had been introduced as a kind of secondary boss, after all. “Yeah, sure. What can I help you with, exactly?”

Peterson motions towards the other side of the cave’s front portion. Past all the glowing consoles and workbenches is a series of metal partitions, just next to another tunnel system. “My office is over t-there. I’d rather we s-s-spoke in—“ his eyes flick over some of the other scientists, monitoring data at various consoles. “-In private.”

The inside of the metal partitioned room that Peterson leads him to isn’t so much an office as a space-age cubicle. A desk and computer are crammed in, with piles of indeterminate files stacked as neatly as possible along the walls.

Peterson squeezes behind the desk and into an office chair that’s obviously seen better days, and Rhys follows suit, perching on a small stool opposite. The contrast between all the typical office paraphanelia and the craggy cave just through the door is truly comical, especially considering these partitioned “rooms” don’t have ceilings. Up above is the high pitch of the cave, dark and smelling of damp.

“I’m s-sorry if I alarmed you at all,” Peterson begins, leaning forwards on the desk. “It’s just— Your cybernetics.”

Rhys frowns in confusion, tapping the metal of his fingers against his thigh. He’d be suspicious of this whole encounter, but he still thinks Peterson seems harmless— excitable, maybe. And then there’s the weight of his revolver in its holster. “What about them?”

“Well. You’re the one they did the procedure on, am I c-correct? S-so that Handsome Jack could come back?”

That’s classified information, as far as Rhys knows. It was better for Jack’s “business Jesus but with more guns” image if his resurrection looked more like an unassisted miracle. His brow must wrinkle in confusion, because Peterson seems to realize his error immediately, quickly adding, “I was consulted, for the removal and re-installation of y-your neural port. The designer based it on, on one of my original prototypes. I w-watched the procedure over a video feed.”

Rhys relaxes slightly, nodding. Right, Peterson is head of cybernetics here after all. He must be more than qualified for Jack to pick him. “So do you know Lisa then?”

Peterson nods, smiling fondly. “Ah yes, Lisa and I, w-we worked together briefly in robotics design, and both found our way to cybernetics on Helios. B-briefly in my case. I’ve been j-jumping between other projects since then.” The smile fades and he swallows. “I— I’m nervous to ask this, b-but I’m so familiar with your cybernetic processes in particular, that it s-s-seemed foolish not to try…”

“You don’t have to be nervous with me, I’m not Jack.” Rhys leans in to say. Something about the look of restrained excitement twinkling in Peterson’s weak but bright eyes has him intrigued.

Peterson clears his throat, nodding once. “N-not that I don’t appreciate everything Jack has, er, done for me, but I would— p-please don’t tell him I talked to you about this.” He seems to be looking for encouragement, so Rhys nods his assent. “You s-s-see. That glove prototype, it works, it works well enough. But really, I’ve been working on a way— A way we could get much b-better results. Easier linkage with other creatures.”

“But why wouldn’t you want to tell Jack? I’m sure he’d be thrilled…”

Peterson winces. “Well, h-he knows. You see, the cybernetic implants we’ve put into Alice— into the subject— they translate roughly to various protocols in the glove. It’s coming along, but the operation on the part of the handler, it’s n-not intuitive. I can only operate it because I’m intimately f-familiar with the engineering behind it.

“But there, there’s an alternate option. If a user had cybernetics _themselves—_ ”

Rhys leans back, hands tensing on his legs.

“— They wouldn’t, they wouldn’t have that problem. They would intuitively u-understand how to control the creature, because they would have a direct neural l-link with it.”

“… You want me to be your guinea pig?” Rhys interjects. “Look, it may be uncommon but there are _other_ people with neural implants, man.”

Peterson puts his hands up in alarm, shaking his head. “No! N-not a guinea pig, not the way Hyperion usually uses test s-subjects.” His frankness on _that_ matter is surprising. “Jack has already s-started looking for people with implants. The problem is finding a suitable candidate— there’s a huge range, a huge range of how successful a person’s implants are. But you— I’ve s-seen the diagrams of your implants, the specs for y-your system. The unique ways your body has integrated the cybernetics. You would be able, able to link up _easily._ And if you’re going to be here, on base, you could… Could just help me collect the initial data, you see, I know, I know that you’re much too important to put at risk in the actual field, but we could fine-tune things in the meantime s-so that we’d be much closer to ready to go once s-someone is selected.” He breaks eye-contact, wiping away the sheen of sweat from his temple with a sleeve. “There’s no danger, not in trial runs, and Jack, he’s putting a lot of pressure to get this done as s-soon as possible.”

“Have you told Jack that I’m a match?” He asks quietly. His belly has tightened. Jack cares about this project so much— and if he finds out that Rhys is an ideal candidate, then he might _make him_ , he might—

“Yes.” Peterson says quietly.

Rhys' brow furrows in confusion. “Then why… Why don’t you want him to know that you’re talking to me about it?”

“He— He threatened to toss me in the cage with A-Alice if I brought up the idea again.” He admits nervously. “He said you’re, off limits.” Rhys straightens in his seat, surprised. He knows he’s become pretty invaluable, but if this experiment is as harmless as Peterson claims then he would have expected Jack to throw him at it. Especially considering the way he was forced to install Jack’s spyware, all on a whim. “I just thought… You s-seem nice, and I thought I could at least… Ask.”

Rhys is still processing what he’s just learned as he stands. But the thought of having something in his head again, something intruding on his thoughts, changing who he is— It gives him chills. He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Peterson looks almost immediately crestfallen, possibly a bit panicked. “Look, I’ll think about it more, but I can at least promise you that I won’t tell Jack about this.” He offers a weak smile. “Now I have to go. I’ve got a backlog of ECHOs to catch up on, and Helios is on fire for all I know.”

He heads back to Jack’s quarters in a bit of a daze. The thought of connecting to that _thing_ has him letting out a shudder once he’s safely inside, but his real confusion is about Jack. This revelation, coupled with last night. He’s afraid to read too much into it.

He’s already queuing up the messages from Cyrus, Vaughn, and a handful of department heads that he’ll need to respond to as he dumps some trash off a chair and settles in.

It’s time to bury himself in work.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhh I'm so sorry the updates keep taking longer and longer. Life, she is a cruel mistress. The good(?) news is we're approaching the end of this wild ride. About 3-4 chapters left, kids. Thanks everyone for sticking around to read my bullshit.

Rhys is totally planning to tell Jack about the Pandora projects he’s been working on these past few months— he totally, _totally_ is. It’s just… Well, the proper time hasn’t exactly presented itself yet. He wants a solid plan before actually approaching Jack about it, because it’s harder for Jack to say no and call him an idiot if he can at least back things up with a bit of research.

Of course, there’s always the possibility that Jack _knows_ , considering the spyware that’s been jammed into his fricking head. But if he does, he doesn’t mention it, and Rhys pretends that’s a sign of tacit approval.

Which is why he is currently talking to two people he thought he’d never see again, much less actively seek out and _employ._ Finding the con-artists had been hard enough, and convincing them to accept the offer, convincing them that he was planning something _good_ for Pandora instead of more skull-shiver inducing drills, that had been a miracle all in its own.

“Yes, we have your damn scan readings,” grumbles a clearly harried Fiona over the ECHOlink. “You’re paying us extra for this one, stretch.”

He’s in his office on Helios at the moment, glancing at some reports while they talk. Jack is— Well, Jack is at _some_ Hyperion branch for the next few days, probably terrifying the local management. With Rhys splitting his own time between Helios and the camp on Pandora, Jack has been taking little trips to the _other_ Hyperion offices, ostensibly to whip them into shape in the metaphorical sense. Then again, Rhys has seen footage involving Jack, a middle-manager, and an electrical cord that indicates a more literal interpretation of that expression.

“We agreed on a rate, Fiona, and you’re two days late anyways.” He copy-pastes his signature onto another budgetary report that glows green from the computer screen.

“Fiona’s just grumpy because her coat got ruined” calls Sasha, voice further away than her sister’s.

“I am not _grumpy,_ I’m justifiably outraged that this corporate douche sent us into a frickin’ _slag swamp_ brimming with bandits. And for the record, that coat was damn good leather and—“

Rhys pauses at the mention of bandits, looking up from the paperwork. “I didn’t know about the bandits.” He interjects, moving quickly to turn on the call’s video feed. It takes a moment, but Fiona’s unamused frown flickers to life on the screen.

“Fiona, I _did not know_ about the bandits,” he repeats as sincerely as he can, fanning out his spindly fingers to emphasize the statement. Sasha is in the background of the shot, apparently in their new caravan. She’s busying herself over the stove. “Are you guys okay?”

Fiona raises her eyebrows and gestures broadly at the scorches on what was once a nicely fitted coat. “Are you _blind_? Tell me, when you sold your soul to Hyperion did you throw in your eyes as a package deal?”

Rhys can make out the way Sasha rolls her own eyes as she approaches, setting a chipped, steaming mug on the table and crouching to insert her face next to Fiona’s. “We’re _fine_ , Rhys,” she assures him. “It wasn’t a camp. There were only two of them, Fiona’s shield just happened to be malfunctioning and one had incendiary ammo.”

Fiona waves a hand. “There was a tent, hence they were camping, so _technically_ it was a bandit camp.”

Rhys relaxes with a small smile. He would feel pretty guilty if his intel was wrong and he’d sent them right in the middle of asshole country instead of on a simple survey mission like he’d intended. But two bandits, well, he has every confidence they can handle two. Fiona has been training with somebody she met after he’d made it off Pandora. She refuses to tell him who, exactly, but the point is that she’s more than capable of handling herself now.

“Alright, I’ll throw in some money for a new coat,” he says in placation. A reminder blinks across his HUD; he has a tune-up with Lisa in about twenty minutes.

Fiona seems to relent after a gentle nudge from Sasha. She sighs, uncrossing her arms. “Yeah, okay. Fine.” She reaches off screen to retrieve the environmental scanner he had given them, waving it in front of the camera. It looks a little muddy, scratched, but mostly intact. “We’ve got your data here.”

Rhys gives a thumbs-up. “Sweet! Good work. Just upload it, I’ll wire the payment later today.” Environmental info is crucial to establishing better infrastructure on Pandora— knowing which areas have water, aren’t filled with radiation, that kind of thing. For the nooks and crannies that eluded company research due to lack of potential profits, Rhys has been sending Sasha and Fiona. “How much was the jacket?”

He can practically see the dollar-signs in Fiona’s eyes as she opens her mouth to speak, but Sasha cups her hand around her mouth to stage whisper “She stole iiit.” She returns to her normal tones, and waves a hand, ignoring Fiona’s small shove. “Just send a little extra. There’s a tailor back in Hollowpoint that can sort it out. Any more work?”

“Um, let’s see…” He pulls a few things up on the screen, glancing through them. Various progress markers. What he wants to have before approaching Jack is basically proof that they can improve life on Pandora without completely jettisoning the idea of profit. Making Pandora semi-habitable would inevitably benefit its economy, would give them the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a new market for real-estate, imports and the like. He’s compiled what he can find about similar projects on other planets, (granted, no planet is like _Pandora_ ,) evidence that careful planning can yield not-insubstantial gains as well as a new trainable labor pool for the company.

But, as mentioned, the first step is making Pandora _habitable._ He’s dug up blueprints for several abandoned projects Hyperion had worked on at various points, or patents they’d bought from other companies and quickly forgotten. Vast improvements on condensation collectors, greenhouse technology to allow agriculture. That kind of thing.

“No,” he concludes finally, “no, I think that’s it for now.” He’s waiting on a report about the most viable locations for new settlements, population estimates, mortality rates, a whole bunch of other ethnographic research.

“Right,” Fiona says dryly, taking a sip of her tea, making a face of displeasure as she swallows before eyeing the stuff with obvious distrust. “So, when are these grand plans of yours going into motion?” She sets the cup down, farther from herself than strictly necessary.

“Well,” he runs the metal of his fingers through his hair. “Hopefully soon? It’ll be slow though, guys. Test communities, first. And we’ve got to get R&D cracking on some of this stuff… I just have to… Y’know, get permission first. Kind of.”

“Permission? I thought you were some fancy boss-man, now. You have a giant space window behind you. And is that _marble flooring?_ ”

He clears his throat, adjusting the camera up a bit. “No, nope, totally not.” He chuckles nervously, pausing. Normally he wouldn’t use their office for these little calls, but Jack is on— hell, he doesn’t know, Aquator he thinks. Supposedly “trimming the fat”, a goal that again has the potential to turn all too literal with Jack. Especially if the locals have been foolish enough to leave out any sharp objects.

“Look, this still has to run through _Jack_ ” he admits.

God, the way both of them narrow their eyes in unison is enough to melt his circuit board. They may be taking his money, they may even be starting to believe he’s in this for good reasons— some minor improvements to Hollowpoint hadn’t hurt— But Jack, Jack they don’t trust. For obvious reasons.

“If that lunatic—“ Fiona starts, pointing accusingly.

“— It won’t be like before, I promise. I promised you that.” He doesn’t want to go back to square one on this, with them seeing him as strictly a soulless corporate shill. But the time flashes across his HUD again; he needs to get going. “Look, I gotta jet guys. But I’ll be in touch soon, once I’ve got some concrete plans, which I’ll show you and everything. Okay?”

Fiona seems to be considering his words carefully, lips pursed. Sasha is waiting for her sister’s lead.

“… Alright, fine. Don’t skimp on the jacket money.”

He smiles in relief, raising his fist tentatively. “Long distance fist bump?”

Sasha arches a brow and Fiona gives him the finger. The video cuts off.

 

* * *

 

  
“Okay, so, the employee wage tallies here— Those check out, records confirm the number of miners on-site that month.” His brow is furrowed as he stares at the glowing blue figures floating in the air above his palm. He leans back in his chair and massages the skin around his neural port absent-mindedly. “What I don’t get is what this figure here could be for— we’ve already accounted for wages, transport costs, supplies…”

Cyrus has a chair pulled round to Rhys' side of the desk, close enough to his side that their knees bump as he leans in closer to study the projected numbers. They’re in Rhys' office after-hours, tying up the last of a few accounting discrepancies.

Cyrus runs a thoughtful finger over his beard. “Right, that’s the one we’re still trying to work out. I’ve got a few people running back through all the numbers.” Cyrus became the new head of accounting shortly after Rhys' first trip to the Pandoran camp, after his previous boss was transferred to a much smaller branch located on Eden-6. Given the luxurious surroundings you’d think it was a promotion, but it decidedly was not.

He nods, closing his fingers in his palm as the display flicks off. “Well, we need it by the end of the financial quarter, okay? It might seem small, but if we could have everything squared up for once it’d be nice. There’s no end to the people embezzling around here…”

Cyrus’s eyes twinkle as he smiles at him, resting his chin in his hand. “If you can’t stomach foul play you chose the wrong place to work. Speaking of corruption, are you coming to the cocktail party in acquisitions this evening? They’re celebrating that patent they threatened their way into—“

Rhys moans, leaning back and rubbing his face. “Oh god, is that tonight?” He sighs, dropping his hands in defeat. He’s honestly tempted, if only because he could drag along Vaughn and Yvette whom are always delightfully snarky at these kind of events. “Are you going?”

Cyrus nods in amusement. “You know how it is, Rhys. If you don’t want stabbed in the back you better keep your eyes on the knife. You’ve got to stay plugged in, here.” He nudges Rhys' leg with his own, light enough to be friendly. They’ve gotten closer in the last few months, as Rhys sees more and more of him at work ever since Jack delegated pretty much all direct dealing with the department heads to Rhys. “Besides, it could be fun.”

“I can’t,” he says finally, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ve actually got, uh, plans.” He glances at the time display on Cyrus’s computer, realizing with some alarm that the workday has officially been over for three hours. He’s prone to staying late, but like he said— he’s got plans. “Speaaaking of which,” he stands awkwardly, grabbing the black hexagon-checked jacket he’d draped on the back of the chair. “Best get going.”

Something similar to disappointment flicks across Cyrus’s features, but as he stands he’s quick to cover it with a smile. “Hot date?” he ventures, raising one thick brow playfully.

“Ha! Ha. Uh, no.” He wouldn’t call it a date, exactly. “Just… Getting ready for another trip down to Pandora, next week. So I’ve got some things to organize first.”

“Another? So soon?” As Rhys busies himself packing his leather shoulder-bag, stuffing it with ECHOpads and assorted papers, Cyrus pulls himself up casually to sit on the corner of the desk. “I’m guessing that means we’ll be dealing with Jack for the week instead of you. Shame.”

Rhys laughs. Cyrus is the only one that knows about the Pandora trips— but only because Rhys has also needed someone in accounting to sign off on the funds for his personal project, and at times it’s been necessary to let him know when Rhys will be gone. He doesn’t know the purpose of the trips, of course.

“No, this time it’ll be both of us going down.” He says, buckling his bag. The ‘murse’ as Jack delights in calling it, with all the comedic sensibilities of a middle-schooler. “If you need anything just send me an ECHO, you know how Jack is.”

“No, I really don’t,” Cyrus says with some amusement. Rhys feels rumpled after a long day, hair mussed and clothes wrinkled, but annoyingly Cyrus’s sharp red vest and bowtie remain perfectly positioned and crisp. “I think you might be the only one that _knows_ Jack.”

Rhys fights a twitching smile, leaning his hip against the desk and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Trust me, I don’t _know_ Jack.”

Cyrus tilts his head. “How long will you be gone this time?”

“Dunno,” Rhys admits, adjusting his bag’s strap where it nudges uncomfortably against his shoulder holster. “Few days, week at most.” He starts towards the door and Cyrus slides off the desk smoothly, following at Rhys' elbow. “Oh, I sent you an invoice. It’s time to, uh, pay my people on Pandora. They just wrapped up another job for me.” The office door slides open. Even Cheryl is gone for the day. He and Cyrus are alone in this wing, in the dimmed lights and astringent cleaning smell left behind by the custodial staff’s evening rounds. The isolation is something he’s acutely aware of as the other man turns his glimmering eyes in his direction.

“Sure. I’ll iron out the transfer first thing tomorrow.” He squeezes Rhys' metal arm. “Take care of yourself down there.”

 

* * *

 

 

  
It’s not that spending the night with Jack is uncommon, anymore— no, ever since Pandora it’s a pretty regular occurrence whenever they happen to be in the same place.

What _is_ uncommon, though, is Jack showing up at _Rhys'_.

His first instinct when he opens the apartment door to find Jack standing there is, quite simply, to shut it. He manages to restrain himself as Vaughn calls over his shoulder from the living room, where he’s watching The Real Housebots of Isolus. “Who is it, bro?”

“Uhh…” Jack stands there, hips cocked to match his eyebrow.

“Y’gonna let me in, or is the shock of my hotness too great after a few days apart?”

“Is it the pizza? We just ordered it like two minutes ago!”

“No!” He calls over his shoulder before turning back to hiss at Jack. “What are you doing here?”

Jack shrugs, shouldering his way in. “Thought you’d be pleased I’m back from Aquator a little early.” It’s about 10PM, and Rhys has already changed into a soft pair of pajama bottoms and a tank top; Jack doesn’t hide his appreciative once-over as he breezes past Rhys.

Rhys shuts the door reluctantly, nervously following Jack who saunters around the half-wall into the kitchen and begins opening and shutting cupboards. “Right, so, why didn’t you call me? Have me come over like usual?” Vaughn is blessedly too involved in the antics of the Housebots to notice the CEO rummaging through their kitchen like a feral raccoon.

Jack turns to face him, apparently disinterested by the contents of the fridge. He leans back against it so that the door shuts, crossing his arms. “Y’know, sometimes I get bored of the luxury, thought I’d slum it a little. Although,” he glances around, “I’m definitely paying you more than _this._ Are you blowing it all on hair-gel or something?”

Rhys glares. “No, I just—“ Jack has gone back to rummaging “— What the _hell_ are you looking for?”

“Food.” He replies. “Although, I think I heard something about pizza?”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s one of the most surreal nights of Rhys' life. First of all, introducing Vaughn to Jack. He’s never seen Vaughn so utterly horrified, save all the nearly dying they did on Pandora. Vaughn may have been aware of Rhys' weird status with Jack, but he probably never expected to see him here in the apartment.

“Uh, Vaughn. You know, um… Handsome Jack? Our boss?” He says as Jack looked around the living room, clearly unimpressed. “And Jack, I’m sure you… Remember Vaughn…” Strange to think, Jack had been around Vaughn quite a bit on Pandora without the smaller man realizing it. As data bouncing around Rhys' head, but still.

“Heya short-stuff.” Jack says casually, walking around the couch to fall backwards into it without preamble. “How’s it going? Still freakishly buff?”

“Um.” Vaughn responds, eloquently.

What follows for Rhys is an awkward few hours watching mindless reality TV with his best friend, who is clearly too petrified to really talk or move to leave the room, and his sort-of-not-really boyfriend and definitely-for-sure boss. When the pizza arrives, Jack scarfs several slices down and drapes an arm loosely over Rhys' shoulders.

Strangely enough, once Vaughn seems to register that Jack won’t be shoving him through a window into the cold void of space, or at least won’t be doing so _tonight,_ he actually calms down a little. Laughs at Jack’s commentary, even replies with a few quips of his own.

“Holy shit, it’s so obvious that blow-job machine is sleeping with both Ryan _and_ Camilo,” Jack scoffs around a mouthful of pepperoni, waving the greasy crust in front of Rhys' face so close that he goes a little cross-eyed. “Is house-maid bot blind?”

“It’s crazy, even if she has literally no optical sensors,” agrees Vaughn, grabbing another slice from the open box on the coffee table. “Plus, those oil stains on Calio’s shirt didn’t come from _her_ , so…”

The fact that this is happening at Rhys' apartment is weird, sure, but the true strangeness of the situation lies in the fact that this is _way more domestic_ than anything his relationship with Jack has entailed so far. It’s true, Jack has him stay over at his penthouse a lot now, whenever they actually happen to be in the same place, or sometimes will just bend Rhys over his desk at work and _wreck him._ But it’s never seemed like a “date,” no matter how intimate they seem to get. If he’s with Jack before actual sex happens, they’re talking about work, about various plans and ideas. They talk more easily than before, they have a joking rapport now, and sometimes they eat take-out together in Jack’s living room whilst they work, but… Yeah, it’s different.

When they finally go to bed— Vaughn awkwardly mumbling a goodnight accompanied by a jerky half-wave— Jack shows the same rude curiosity about Rhys' bedroom as he did with the kitchen. Opening and shutting drawers, flicking at knick-knacks.

Rhys is sure that on the other side of his door, Vaughn is already queuing up an ECHO to dish about the whole debacle to Yvette. Lunch tomorrow will be torture. He finally settles onto the rumpled sheets of his bed as Jack pokes around, toeing off his socks. “How was Aquator?” he manages.

Jack shrugs, apparently fascinated by his sock collection. He holds aloft a pair that has little cartoon claptraps on them, wrinkling his nose. Something Yvette had bought Rhys one Christmas for secret Santa, as a joke. “Wet.”

He closes the sock drawer, noticing the mount for Rhys' arm that hangs on the wall by the bed and pacing over to it. “The hell is this?”

“Oh,” Rhys says with some embarrassment. “It’s to help me detach my arm at night. When I’m alone.” The _when you’re not there_ hangs unspoken in the air between them. Jack may still mock and harass Rhys, may not always be gentle when they have sex, using him roughly sometimes (something he sure as hell can’t complain about,) but there is one thing he’s started doing each time before they pass out that surprises Rhys without fail. He helps Rhys dismount his arm each time, without comment and without being asked.

So when Rhys says he uses the rack that hangs on the wall when he’s “alone,” he really means nearly every night of his life. It’s not something people have ever offered to do other than Vaughn and technicians like Lisa, and frankly Rhys prefers doing it himself. Taking himself apart is a personal thing. It makes him feel vulnerable. He’s not sure why Jack doing it isn’t as intrusive.

“Where’s it from?” Jack starts removing his boots, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Vaughn designed it for me, as a present.” His cheeks warm progressively more as he watches Jack undress. The hair of his chest is revealed as he unbuttons his shirt, the thick happy trail that starts on the swell of his abdomen.

Jack hmms as he takes off his pants, sliding into the bed once he’s in nothing but striped boxer-shorts. Lays on his side, propping his head up with one hand as the other spreads over Rhys' stomach, the pinky tracing up under the hem of his shirt. “I’d be worried about the little nerd if I didn’t see how hungry you get for my cock.”

Rhys flushes, jumping slightly when Jack’s palm finds his stiffness through the cotton of the pajama bottoms. “Jack, he’ll hear us—“

Jack grins. “So? Icing on the cake.” He squeezes firmly, shifting so that they lay pressed together, his lips inches from Rhys' now slack mouth. Rhys whimpers.

“C’mon, I haven’t heard you scream for it in a while, pumpkin.” His gropes become rougher, more predatory, and their lips finally connect. Wet and open. Jack’s mouth tastes like pizza grease, because it never crosses his mind to brush before stuffing his tongue down Rhys' throat. It’s several minutes of that, just heated kisses and bites with Rhys' fingers wrapped around Jack’s bicep for grounding, occasionally burying his nose in the juncture of the older man’s neck to take in the faint scent of dried sweat.

Jack’s fingers find the dent in Rhys' arm just as he’s rather savagely biting his collarbone. He always seems to be touching it when they’re like this, probing the mar in Rhys' metal arm like it’s a fixation. He pulls away a fraction in annoyance. “Why haven’t you had this plating replaced yet, for fuck’s sake,” he growls, nudging a leg between Rhys' thighs.

Rhys blinks, considering. “I don’t… want to.” He says finally. He looks down, to where Jack’s nail disappears below the divot of the yellow plating.

“Why the hell not?” He taps at it. “You know I’ll pay for it, stupid.”

Rhys frowns defensively, releasing his grip on Jack’s arm. “Why do I have to explain myself. It’s _part of me_ isn’t it? I mean— Why do you still wear that damn mask?”

It’s out before he can think about it, and his mouth reflexively clamps shut. Too late. His mouth opens and shuts as he tries fruitlessly to think of a way to smooth things over.

Obviously he’s been wondering, ever since Jack came back in a freshly cloned body, almost a year and a half ago now. Doubly much as they slowly became, well, whatever they are now. But that doesn’t mean he ever intended to ask. He knows people have been asphyxiated over as much.

Jack stares down at him blankly for a moment, intensely.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He says finally, low and dangerous. His fingers curl around Rhys' arm like a fist.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Rhys inhales deeply. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… It’s just. Your body should be new, right, a clone? So there’s nothing, uh, nothing to cover up anymore. I mean I’m _guessing_ it was scars or something, so…” He shrugs, avoiding Jack’s eyes. “So how’s that any less weird than me wanting to keep my bullet wound?”

Slowly, Jack pushes himself up, so that he’s leaning back on the balls of his feet and laughing. “You wanna know why I still wear a mask I don’t need, kiddo?” he asks with a grin, the wolfish one that always sends Rhys' heart thumping. His hands raise, working deftly at the clasps that connect skin and mask. Rhys starts to pull himself up on his palms in surprise.

“Jack, you don’t have to--“

But Jack’s already got them undone, and he takes the mask away with one hand. Where it before had been pliable, a second skin stretched over his face, it now has gone ridged and stiff in his hand. His voice is bitter.

“I wear it because I _do_ still need it.”

Rhys is frozen in shock.

There’s a scar, for lack of a better word, a ridged blue imprint that crosses up and over Jack’s cheek, through one eye, curving down on his forehead and skirting around the bridge of his nose. Rhys realizes belatedly that it’s the vault symbol, the one he’s seen in all of Hyperion’s high access-level documents, and it’s been branded into Jack’s face and lined by the bumpy crags of scar-tissue.

Jack’s mouth twists up into the bitter mockery of a smile, pushing the scar up at one corner. The eye that creates the only gap in the scar is milky white with the threading of thin pink veins, meaning his mask must have an artificial lens and cornea build into its socket.

“At least I’ve still got my looks, right babe?” He says it cavalierly, but it’s clear that he’s waiting guardedly for a reaction. The wild look is back in his eyes, the one that warns of a tipping point.

Rhys can’t help reaching a hand up slowly, expecting to be slapped away, pinned back down. Jack flinches as Rhys' rubs the pad of his human thumb over a sunken patch.

Other than the scar the shape of Jack’s face, his _real_ face, is almost exactly the same as the mask. Less sharp maybe, but still with the same well-defined nose and high cheekbones. The wrinkles beneath his eyes and the line framing his cheeks are more obvious like this, more telling of his age. The skin is so pale compared to the tan of his other skin, sheltered from the light so long that it looks almost like a mask itself. Halves of each clasp remain, demarcating where the mask should end, grafted into Jack’s skin.

Rhys' brow is wrinkled in undeniable confusion. “How?”

“Remember how I found the first vault?" Jack asks, still but for the way his skin twitches and jerks beneath Rhys' seeking fingers. Rippling like he’s holding himself still against every instinct. “Yeah, let’s just say that was the first time I made the _mistake_ of letting someone stab me in the back.” He finally can’t seem to take Rhys' appraisal anymore, jerks his head to the side so that Rhys' hand falls back to the comforter.

“But _how_ ” Rhys mutters. “How is it still there?”

Jack’s lips twitch wryly. “None of my useless scientists could figure it out. Every other scar I ever had is gone.” He settles back over Rhys, caging him in, face shoving towards his like he wants him to see. When he blinks, his eyelid seems to catch slightly on the glazed eye, uneven with the other. The pink limmed tear-duct glimmers wetly.

“Y’know I once had a guy given cosmetic surgery to look _identical_ to me, and I mean he looked frickin’ _perfect._ So even before the cloning this shouldn’t have been an issue to fix. But the damn thing wouldn’t go away, it just kept coming back.” It’s almost conversational until his voice catches. “It doesn’t make any god-forsaken sense, but what about the vault _does_?”

Rhys stares, breathless. Jack looks to the side, swallowing with a twitch and moving to pick his mask back up—

But Rhys stops him. Reaches up with his hand, the metal one, pushing his fingers through the hair on the back of Jack’s neck and pulling him down into a hot kiss. Jack is stiff at first, but when Rhys grinds his hips up into Jack’s it’s like he’s switched back on suddenly, and his hand falls back to the bed as he bites at Rhys' lips with an angry growl. It only takes him a second to shove Rhys' pajamas and boxers down, to scratch blunt nails roughly up his inner thigh.

The heat between them is suddenly intense, suddenly making them both buck and thrust roughly, palming over each other’s flushed skin. Rhys can feel the ridge of Jack’s scar every now and then, whenever their cheeks drag together, and it sends a thrill up his spine. Seeing Jack, seeing the real Jack.

“I’m going to make you scream.” Jack says, his usually honeyed tones hoarse. “Your little friend is gonna hear. He’s gonna know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Rhys pants as Jack drags his bottoms off the rest of the way. He’s intent on not giving in to that, on biting his lips as hard as necessary to keep quiet. But instead of fingering him like he expects, or stroking him, Jack does something unexpected.

Jack goes down on him. It’s the first time that it hasn’t been Rhys' lips stretched around Jack, and the sudden heat around his dick has him immediately break his silence with a surprised cry. Jack sucks dick like he’s mad about it, like he wants to ruin Rhys, hands raking over Rhys' hips and squeezing up under his ass to dig into the soft flesh there.

Rhys looks down, past the pale lines of his own ribs, his pubic trail, down to where the vault symbol-shaped scar distorts at the pull of Handsome Jack’s mouth around him.

He’ll apologize to Vaughn for the noise tomorrow.


	19. Chapter 19

It all goes to hell in a very special way.

 

* * *

 

So much progress has been made since the last time Rhys watched this little performance. The stalker moves with so much less hesitation now, although the strange head-tic between command and action is still present. But the way it obeys Peterson is much more natural looking, much less tensed by resistance.

Peterson had said they would need a cybernetics user to get this kind of response. How they’ve achieved it without, that Rhys doesn’t know. It gives him a strange wriggling unease, in the back of his mind. He’s already been avoiding the cave, and by extension Peterson, as much as possible whenever he’s been down here handling operations. But that disquiet ratchets up another few levels as he watches the dance of the stalker’s shimmering flanks.

“She’s gorgeous,” says Jack with a grin. His eyes are bright with excitement as he watches the latest demo of the eridium-enhanced stalker, Rhys at his elbow. It’s the first time they’ve both been down to the camp on Pandora at the same time since Rhys' first trip. They actually rode down together, this time.

“I don’t know if gorgeous is the way most people would describe something with that many teeth, but sure, okay.” Rhys remarks dryly, watching as ‘Alice’ moves, hulking but limber under the direction of Peterson’s waved commands. He’s actually _in_ the tank this time, the brave little soul, apparently to prove his own confidence in the gauntlet’s control.

Jack leans slightly, just enough to press their shoulders together. His wiry arm hair brushes Rhys' skin where they’ve both rolled up their sleeves.

“Nuh-uh pumpkin. See, big teeth _are_ beautiful. Big teeth, big claws, big _guns_.” He slides his eyes to meet Rhys', winks. “When it’s all out in the open, you know what you’re dealing with. It’s when you can’t see them…” In the tank, Peterson folds a finger inward, squeezing over one of the buttons in the palm. The stalker spits something, glowing bright and purple, and an unlucky bunch of plants sizzles into nothingness. Jack’s face splits in a thrilled grin. “ _That’s_ when you gotta worry.”

The other scientists have all gathered round for the demo, and the tension in the cave is palpable, because this is it. This is the final test for them after months of isolation here, the possible completion of this experiment. Jack had informed Rhys on the way down, in-between shoving his hand down Rhys’ pants, that this first experiment is drawing to a close. If he judges it well executed, more of the camps will eventually be established, more creatures of similar size and strength experimented on to see just how far they can push this technology. If he’s unimpressed…

Well, Rhys hopes for the sake of the workers here that that won’t be the case.

“So,” Rhys says over the smattering applause as the stalker slinks into camouflaged invisibility, then out again at a wave of Peterson’s hand. “What’s next?”

Jack shrugs, clearly in a good humor. “Yeah, I guess these nerds did an alright job, huh? No nerd roasting tonight! It’s still not ready for the field, of course, it’s too dependent on timing the eridium treatments for obedience, and we can’t have the thing going rogue and murdering— ugh, I can’t believe I’m saying this, murdering _innocents_.” The sour turn of Jack’s mouth is obvious, but the statement still makes Rhys' lips quirk in a smile. “Which, that’s not even an accurate _term_ , by the way, no one on this shit rock is an innocent, but. Non-bandits, I guess? Yeah, if too many of them die I’m guessing it’ll be back to people burning incredibly handsome effigies of me and hiring assassins.”

“They haven’t exactly stopped,” Rhys notes. “I think they’ve started a holiday on the day you died. They give each other statues shaped like your dessicated corpse.”

“Fine, well, my point is I’m hoping for some co-operation this time around. So.”

“Also those effigies are really shitty, did you see the one they shot from a cannon last week? It’s face was like melty wax.” Rhys shudders. “It haunts my dreams.”

They watch a while longer. It’s clear the effectiveness of the experiment has been demonstrated, Peterson is just showing off at this point— even from this distance, the way he stares at the beast with adoration is bordering on disturbed. Jack looks at the stalker like a child pleasantly surprised with a fun new toy. Peterson looks at the stalker with unfettered affection.

Rhys tugs idly at the strap of his shoulder holster. The stalker’s purple and green markings have only grown more vibrant as the eridium treatments have continued, and it’s reminiscent of his revolver in a way he wishes he hadn’t noticed.

“Sweet-ass monster army aside, y’know what Rhysie? We’re about to make a butt-load of money off this new tech. Like, god, just soohoho much money!” He says it with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “Fuck, we can buy a whole damn planet if we want. Laser-cut my face into it. Burn money for fun. The universe is our oyster.”

Rhys nods. What Jack says is true— the advancements in cybernetics and e-tech they’ve made through these experiments, they’re incredible. There’re a dozen new patents on the fast-track through legal as they speak. It’s _those_ advancements Rhys is excited about. And even better— during his solo time visiting down here, he’s been digging through the data from the experiments running on the other sub-cave of normal stalkers. As uncomfortable as the cruelty of some of the experiments make him, some of what it indicates could actually be useful in managing the hostile creature problem on Pandora. He has some scientists of his own working through _those_ possibilities.

Well, between that and the strange harmony he’s developing with Jack… Everything is looking up. And at that precise moment, when he’s leaning into Jack’s contact, when his chest is swelling with possibility—

That’s when somebody tears a hole in the stalker’s tank with a rocket launcher.

Of course, Rhys doesn’t _realize_ that’s what’s happened, not at first. At first all he knows is a bit of blunt force trauma, that his world is suddenly sideways and his ears are ringing.

His head is already aching where it’s hit the unforgiving dirt. His hands scrabble uselessly in confusion when he feels Jack’s hand on his shoulder, dragging him up by the shirt as tries to blink things into focus.

“Oh god damn it god _fucking_ damn it—“

Jack’s got him upright now, manhandling him over behind one of the insets in the cave’s wall. “Can you hear me? Kid, can you hear me?”

Rhys groans muzzily, palm to his head as Jack presses him against the smooth ridges of rock. “Yeah,” he manages as the world slowly rights itself. Jack is crouching over him, the dirt on his clothes evidence of his own fall. A stray piece of glass must have sliced him on the forehead, because he’s bleeding just above his mask, the bright read rivulets clinking to the clasps.

“Yeah, I think I’m okay.” Jack stares him in the eye levelly before clenching his jaw and turning to digistruct a turret, drawing his pistol in the meantime. Rhys can’t see what it locks onto around the rocky wall he’s currently sheltered behind, but in front of him he can see the huge breach in the stalker’s tank, movement through the resulting smoke.

Fear grips him for a moment until he sees that the layer of electric bars, at least, are still in-tact. He hopes they’ll hold, because as the smoke clears he can see the stalker stomping angrily, clearly upset by the commotion. He can’t make out what’s happened to Peterson.

“Come out, Jack! You’re just wasting our time!” A woman’s voice echoes through the cave, somewhere from near the entrance Rhys thinks. Firm and sharp.

The look of rage on Jack’s face when he hears the voice is terrifying. “ _Lilith, you absolute bitch_ ” he snarls around the corner, “what is with you and wrecking my shit?”

Rhys winces at a twinge in his ribs as he pulls his revolver from its holster. It’s slick against his sweating palm as he presses back into the wall for support, watching Jack for a cue.

His heart is still pounding from the explosion, and he makes a conscious effort to level out his breathing. Panicking isn’t going to help Jack, but he still doesn’t really know what’s happening.

“I killed you once and I’m gonna kill you again, Jack,” comes the voice again, closer. There are smatterings of gunfire now. Presumably, Hyperion soldiers have responded to the explosion.

Now a man’s voice, thick and booming. “Uh, gee Lilith, sorry I missed with that rocket… This thing’s got punch but it’s shit for accuracy.”

The rest of the exchange is lost over the sounds of fighting.

The Sabre turret is firing at whoever approaches. Jack too, leaning around the rock every now and then to fire off a round furiously. “You just haaad to come here, you just _had to_ ” he’s growling, shoulder jerking with the recoil of his shots. “I’m trying to _help_ this garbage heap, you maniacs!”

More shots. Screams of presumably dying Hyperion soldiers. The woman’s voice again, calling with effort over the carnage. “Oh yeah, why do I not believe that? Handsome Jack, _helping_ Pandora?”

Rhys swallows thickly, knuckles white around the grip of his revolver. Jack lets off another round of shots before ducking back behind the wall, breathing heavily, eyes turning to Rhys. The blood from his forehead is streaking over his mask. “Listen, we’ve got transport coming if we can hold out and make it back through the entrance. Stay here. Don’t die.” He says it firmly, eyes steeled. “Make use of all that target practice, sugar. Daddy’s gotta take care of some bandits.”

“Where are you—“

And then Jack’s up, spinning around the corner, towards the ringing gunfire.

“ _Jack_ ,” Rhys yells, but it’s too late. Jack’s gone.

He sidles cautiously to the edge of the rock, peeks around with his raised at the ready.

It’s chaos. Bodies strewn around the cave floor in the distance, all Hyperion as far as he can tell, shell casings flying, and in the midst of it all—

Vault hunters.

Jack has moved to another hollow in the rock further ahead, set up another turret and is firing off his pistol in frustration. Rhys watches as he flickers into invisibility, pops back out of it at another spot of cover. He’s yelling pretty creative curses the whole time, but what the woman Lilith had said finally registers with Rhys. These are the people that killed Jack the first time. Amidst all the chaos he can only see Lilith and Brick, which is bad enough but better than having all of the vault hunters here. He prays he’s not mistaken.

“Why can’t you people get _over it_!?” Jack hisses as the small crowd of soldiers between him and the vault hunters falls one by one. “So what, I killed some bandits. You took _everything from me._ Isn’t that enough for you monsters?”

Brick seems to be focusing on the soldiers for the moment, but Lilith is clearly working towards Jack with determination. Rhys has never seen a siren in action before, and it’s truly terrifying.

Lilith laughs incredulously as she phases into visibility to slit the throat of a soldier, dodging the rifle butt of another to blast him apart with a blow of pure energy, her tattoos glowing intense blue. This is the first time Rhys has seen Jack’s rage matched in the face of another person. She’s cutting a swath straight to Jack, painting the cave in blood. “ _Some bandits._ You killed good people. You killed my friends. I don’t know what this little project of yours is, but it’s over now. You should have _never_ set foot back on Pandora.”

She’s getting close. The Hyperion soldiers are all but dead, and Brick is turning to follow Lilith to Jack. Rhys sees the flashes of bullets impacting Jack’s shield, the flickering that means it’s going to give out soon. He curses, turning around the wall to fire off a few shots of his own— and true to his training, he hits the mark— but it’s not enough, Lilith’s absorption shield easily handles the bullets. She doesn’t even look in his direction. Jack will be dead before he manages to crack through.

He scans the area frantically with his ECHOeye, His eyes flick between objects highlighted in blue, filtering the information with jerky movements of his pupils. There has to be something he can use, grenades somebody has dropped, or…

Something displays as a row of question marks. ‘Unkown technology.’ It’s the gauntlet, not 50 feet away. Through the tank breach, and just on the other-side of the electric bars. Rhys makes a split second decision.

Lilith and Brick are focused on dealing with Jack’s turrets for now, so he dashes for the breach. He hasn’t run like this since his first time on Pandora, but adrenaline drives the strid of his long legs, ignoring the burn in his ribs and head, dropping to his knees in a skid as he reaches the edge of the bars.

Now that he’s closer he can see Peterson’s collapsed form further within, half-melted by stalker goo with an arm extended desperately towards the gauntlet. The force of the explosion must have knocked it off, and without control over the stalker, well…

He thrusts his arm between the gap in the bars without thought, grabbing the gauntlet and managing not to electrocute himself. He fumbles with it feverishly, remembering the schematics he’d seen. There’s a chord for neural uplink here, somewhere.

“C’mon, c’mon…” The sweat on his fingers doesn’t make it any easier as he turns the thing over and over in his hands. Peterson had told him that a cybernetics user could understand how to use it intuitively in a way someone else could not. Every second feels like a century, and one of Jack’s turrets shatters behind him.

His thumbnail finally catches on the seam of a compartment. He could burst into tears he’s so grateful when it pops open, revealing an extendable uplink jack. “Ohthankgod,” he chokes, and he doesn’t even hesitate, just unreels the chord and jams it into his neural port and nearly falls flat at the resulting shock.

The way it felt when he’d allowed Jack into his sub-processes, that was nothing compared to this. It’s liquid fire beneath his skin.

He heard that phrase once, in reference to one of the latest designer drugs making its way through the halls of Helios. It’s insufficient for describing what he feels now as something nudges into his subconscious, and he swears he can feel every layer of his skin individually, as if they’re being peeled layer by layer and replaced with pain and adrenaline and power.

“Owowow.” His eyes roll back in his head as he feels the stalker, actually _feels_ its consciousness butting up against his own. Not connected, but so much closer than he’d like. “Oh Christ, oh Christ—“

It would knock him flat if he wasn’t rooted to the ground by the gauntlet where he’s fisted it, knuckles furrowing into loose-packed dust. His head is thrown back against his shoulders, throat working convulsively. “Ah—“ He can’t even see properly, no matter how hard he tries to focus. His ECHO eye is on the fritz, rapidly dilating and zooming, flashing in and out of infrared with each blink. He slaps his palm over it desperately, hunched over now, heaving, feeling something in him snap.

When he drops his palm away, he can see again. The pain is gone. There’s a moment of internal stillness, where he hears but doesn’t really register the sound of Jack’s last turret bursting to flame behind, and he _understands_ , understands exactly how to control the stalker that is now directly opposite him in its cage, staring down.

He looks up into its wedged face, the gleaming green of its bulb-like eye.

He raises the gauntlet.


	20. Chapter 20

The electric bars of the stalker’s cage, apparently, aren’t much of a deterrent when its anger is mixed with Rhys' own frenzied desperation.

A combination of its acid spit and a few slams of its huge body are all it takes for the bars to bend to the point of breaking. Each jolt to its system only fuels its animal rage, only causes it to screech its fury as it drives harder and harder into the iron bars of its prison under the direction of Rhys and the gauntlet.

Rhys would think he’s being cruel for making it do this, cruel because of the convulsions that rack its body upon each collision, except he can feel how badly it wants out. Their neural link is sending that rushing into his own brain, a burning need to be free, and it’s taking considerable will to keep his own thoughts dominate. To keep from being overwhelmed.

It finally breaks through with one last push, and Rhys tastes just the edge of the shock of electricity that dances over the stalker’s shiny hide.

“ _Fuck_.” He has to take a step to the side to catch himself at the unexpected feedback of pain, but the continual rush of adrenaline has him steady as he gestures the gauntlet and the stalker slithers through the large hole it has ripped, stretching its jaw.

The vault hunters have apparently taken notice. Rhys can hear them yelling over the rush of blood in his ears. But he is stuck in the link, and the things beyond the stalker and himself are hard to process.

“Uh. What the hell is _that_?“ asks Lilith as Rhys turns the gauntlet palm down, lowers it precisely. The stalker stoops, its eye staring at him unflinchingly. It is twice his height, weighs substantially more. He doesn’t know what drives him to do it, but he climbs onto its back, quickly, unflinchingly. He pulls himself up, bracing his hand on the backwards jut of its webbed leg as he does so, settles into the juncture between its neck and shoulders as if he’s done this a million times. In his mind he knows every curve of the stalker now, every deep old scar in its hide, every soft patch and sharp tooth.

There is so much power there between his legs as he urges the stalker forward, through the breach in the tank that Brick’s rocket launcher made, and when it’s through and it extends to its full height he is far above the floor of the cave and the firm grip of his prosthetic hand on a bone spike is the only thing anchoring him in place.

But he’s not scared. It feels natural, like they’re almost-not-quite one. And he’s not scared.

“Rhys, what the hell are you doing?” shouts Jack, angry and desperate, knocked prone at some point by the vault hunters. Rhys barely registers the look of _fear_ in his eyes. His turrets are scattered in pieces around him, blood streaking his mask and soaking through his shirt. Lilith and Brick are next to him, staring hard at Rhys. Or, more accurately, at the stalker.

“… Can I punch that?” Brick asks finally, turning his face to Lilith.

“Hold on a minute,” she returns, rising from where she’d had her knife pressed into the delicate flesh of Jack’s throat. Her fingers dance along the butt of a pistol as she blows the hair from her face. “Well?”

Rhys struggles with an immediate urge to crush, to destroy, tangled impulses of the stalker with his own protectiveness. He holds the stalker in check and swallows with more effort than he’s ever needed in his life. “Leave,” he manages, maybe to Jack, maybe to the vault hunters. “We’re not here to— hurt Pandora.” His body is shaking, because he’s not meant to feel all these things at once, and picking out the threads to follow is taxing his system already.

“So this is your little boy toy, huh Jack?” Lilith asks, coldly amused and not taking her eyes from the behemoth for a second.

“Don’t you touch him,” spits Jack in response, moving to rise, stilled quickly by the stomp of a boot on his chest. Lilith ignores the resulting curses, garbled as they are by the blood in Jack’s mouth.

She shouts up to Rhys, who still restrains the stalker with the closed fist of the gauntlet despite the intensity of the fury that blooms in him as he watches Lilith’s heel dig into Jack’s chest. “Y’know your boyfriend here is just using you, right?” she asks, gesturing at Jack with a pistol. “Like he uses everyone? Look at what he’s done to you. Hooked you up to a monster, because everyone is expendable to this douchebag.”

“I didn’t do this,” says Jack, angrily. His eye is swollen shut from the beating he’s been administered, and Rhys’ stomach roils between sickness and raw outrage. “Rhys, unplug that thing _now_ you idiot, it’s—“ Silenced again by Lilith’s boot to his ribs.

“You, _quiet._ ” She looks back up at Rhys, puts away her knife and slowly slides a second pistol out from a hip holster. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what you see in this maniac. But we’ve tangled with worse than your little friend there.” The stalker hisses lowly as if on cue. “I’m giving you one chance, one chance to get off that thing before we smoke it. You’d be more useful to me alive than dead.”

“We killed the vault monster, ya dumbass,” adds Brick, helpfully.

The stalker paws at the ground, tosses its head. Rhys chokes on his words. “Please, just— Ngh—“ He’d been hoping only to— to, he doesn’t know, _scare them off_. He knows they aren’t bad people. He knows that they have every reason to want Jack dead. But pain is beginning to throb through him at the effort of restraint, and he can’t hold it back anymore. The stalker takes a lurching step forward and the dam of his restraint finally bursts.

Lilith gestures to Brick just as her tattoos glow to life.

When Brick rushes the stalker with a berserk yell of excitement at the anticipated bloodshed, Rhys flicks the gauntlet. And just like that Brick is sent careening into the cave-wall by a blow from the stalker’s long whip-like tail. The excitement and pleasure this sends shuddering through Rhys is terrifying. But letting go is all he can do.

The bullets from Lilith’s gun are like needles in the stalker’s skin. Its booming shriek is terrible, and Rhys’ own jaw flexes in time with its cries, as if they’re being torn from his own throat. It’s all a rush, Lilith tumbling to the side to narrowly avoid a snap of the stalker’s teeth as it jumps towards her. Brick has rebounded quickly, advancing on their flank.

Jack takes the opportunity to scramble up and out of the way, scooping up his pistol as he goes and clutching a hand to his ribs. “ _Go_ ,” groans Rhys, “go, I can’t control it—“

It’s hard for Rhys to see anything beyond the tunnel-vision of vengeance dominating his mind, but his eyes— pleading, terrified— lock with Jack’s, just for that moment. The twist of his face is hard to decipher, but as the stalker’s tail sweeps the vault hunters’ legs out from under them, it changes to fiery determination. He looks at Rhys meaningfully, just for a split second, and then turns to run.

Rhys doesn’t have time to consider the pang in his chest. Not in the fog of battle with the stalker lunging at Lilith and Brick, narrowly missing them each time, his knees digging reflexively into its neck to keep his seat. He doesn’t consciously think about the way he moves the gauntlet, the subtle flexes and shifts that have the stalker dealing with the assault of both vault hunters as they circle in. When it spits its acid, sizzling brilliantly against Lilith’s shield, Rhys’ stomach heaves.

The acid depletes the shield, dapples her skin with the flecks of corrosion that leak through. “You’re going to be sorry for that,” she grits, her eyes flashing blue as she unleashes a shockwave that licks over the stalker and Rhys. At that moment he doesn’t care, about threatened repercussions, he just—

He hopes Jack has gotten away.

And thank god Jack had made him wear the absorption shield at all times on Pandora, because there is a hail from Lilith that distracts him as Brick’s fists pummel into the stalker’s flanks. He finds himself pressing a button in the gauntlet’s palm, knowing it will make the stalker invisible even if it shouldn’t work on _him_ , but it _does_.

It hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot, because he doesn’t actually have the organs stalkers use for this little trick, the sacs that generate electrical current, so what happens is the stalker passes it _through_ to him as if he were another of its limbs. Albeit, a poorly insulated limb. It fucking burns, but they shimmer into nothing momentarily, the stalker so swift despite its size, and when they pop back into reality behind Lilith Rhys draws his revolver fluidly and fires.

It’s a reflex. It’s muscle memory from all of his hours in the shooting range, practicing with this thing that was strangely so precious to him, this gun that represents Jack’s trust and confidence. Lilith’s shield still hasn’t regenerated and the three bullets he gets off tear through her. One in the meat of each shoulder, one in her back.

He’s terrified at the cold satisfaction sent through him by the scream of pain and surprise as Lililth falls to her hands and knees.

Rhys’ arm is still extended towards her, pistol shaking in his hand, his eyes wide as he pants with effort. He’s drenched in sweat. The bullet holes in Lilith sizzle black, threads of smoke drifting up from where the corrosion reacts with her flesh. Her back heaves with breath.

“ _Lil_ ,” yells Brick who is already rushing them, and without even looking Rhys raises the gauntlet out towards him, crooks a finger, and the stalker’s webbed leg flares out and sends him crashing into a computer terminal. Rhys wants to vomit badly at the hunger he can feel the stalker experiencing at the distinct smell of burnt flesh, the way this makes his own mouth waters in response.

Lilith lets out one last pained cry before collapsing from what Rhys knows must be shock. The corrosive rounds will be doing a number on her, but he shot wide of her spine or any major organs.

Even in this wretched state of half-being, that’s what he hopes.

He cranes his neck to look at where Brick has struggled to his feet, still stumbling as he shakes off the little shock he got from the terminal. Rhys can hardly see through the sweat that cascades over his brow, now. His heart is pounding dangerously fast. Resisting is taxing his system far too much.

“Please, leave,” he sobs, fingers digging into the side of the stalker, teeth gritting in-between each effort-laden word. “Jack’s gone— your friend is hurt— please, hngh, _please leave_.” Even now the stalker is winning out slowly. It takes a stumbling step towards the prone Lilith. “ _Fuck_ ,” curses Rhys.

Brick is clearly torn. But when the stalker moves towards Lilith, when it’s obvious Rhys is trying to hold it back, to _protect_ her— it takes only a brief hesitation and then he’s running to her. Scoops her up in his thick arms as easily as a sack of groceries.

He pauses for a moment like that, Lilith cradled against his massive chest, smg slung over his shoulder. He looks up into Rhys’ fevered eyes as if the stalker’s horrible face weren’t mere feet from his own.

“You’re lucky she’s out, or she’d rather I kill you than save her,” he says seriously. “Just for defending Jack, she’d want you dead.” And then he’s off, head ducked and torpedoing towards one of the outlets that leads to the back tunnels.

Rhys thinks weakly that they must have good intel, if they know how to get out in that direction. He hopes Jack made it, that the transport he promised took him somewhere safe.

As soon as the vault hunters are out of eyesight the effort of it all hits him like a ton of bricks, and all at once he feels like somebody is unthreading his cybernetics and tugging them out wire-by-wire, splitting his head in two, tearing out his eye.

The stalker must feel it too, because it shrieks, stumbling to the side drunkenly, and it’s all Rhys can do to cling to its neck. He doesn’t feel as in-synch now. Connected, absolutely, but pulling in two separate directions like a pair of panicked cart horses. They crash into a wall, the loose stone that begins falling on top of him nothing compared to the white hot pain within.

It’s not sustainable, this connection. He’s running too hot. He can feel it, can feel that they’ll both burn alive from the inside out. He raises his metal hand to his face to press over his eyes, which throb with pressure as if they’ll burst from his skull at any minute. His fingers come away with blood.

He’s barely able to think, but he knows; he has to disconnect.

As the stalker stumbles into another outcropping of stone, howling in pain, Rhys manages to raise his arm, clawing it weakly through the air until his hand alights upon the cord currently jacked in to his head. “Ohgod,” he hisses, fingers scrambling up the length of cable until they find where it connects at his temple. Tears prick at his eyes, or blood, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.

With one last grunt of effort he rips it free, and the agony that shreds through every fiber of his being is suddenly so much worse than what preceded it. He screams so loudly in time with the stalker that his vocal chords strain, and then there is nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

When he comes to, he is first aware only of a weight crushing his leg, of the pain behind his eyes, of the slicing ache in every muscle. He cannot move, but something is moving _him_ , and gradually he becomes aware of a voice floating near him.

“I said _lift_ , you goddamn weaklings,” yells Jack, his voice unmistakable in its anger. Hands are under Rhys' armpits, warm. “ _Lift_!”

The weight is gone from Rhys’ leg, suddenly, and without the pressure numbing it he is all too quickly aware that it is shattered. His scream comes out as a garbled cry as the hands tug him clumsily, drag him across coarse dirt. A loud thump and the sounds of heavy breathing around him.

“You awake there, cupcake?” Jack’s voice again, the hands gently lowering him to the ground. Skin so cool as it presses against his face, gently. Then, more desperately, “Rhys?”

Finally he manages to peel his eyelids open with an exhalation. He sees Jack’s face above him, tired and smeared in blood and something fighting behind the crazed mismatched eyes. But—

He can not see out of his left eye.

“Ja’g,” he tries in scratchy alarm. But his tongue is thick and swollen, as if he’s bitten it, and the taste of his own blood is overpowering.

Jack’s fingers twitch against his face involuntarily. “Shh. Don’t talk, sunshine. Ya look like...” He’s trying hard sound calm, but his voice is tight. “You look like skag shit.”

He picks Rhys up in both arms with obvious effort and a wince. Rhys gasps at the jolt of pain, weakly coughing out some of the blood that wells over his tongue. His eyes squeeze shut again, and he can’t will them back open.

Another voice, muffled. “Sir, you’re hurt—“

“ _Don’t touch him,_ ” snarls Jack. “Get the fucking shuttle ready before I stick this grenade up your ass.”

Rhys feels as if he’s floating through the air, carried jerkily through space. He’s having trouble staying conscious, but he can tell from the rhythm of his step and the wheeze of Jack’s breath that he is hurt, that he’s having trouble carrying him. He wants to tell him to put him down, but he has never felt so utterly bereft of energy.

“Told ya I’d get you out of here, kid,” Jack says to him quietly. “Had to slaughter my own little mountain of Crimson Lance, but we’ve got a path to the shuttle and a few re-enforcements.” He’s interrupted by a grunt of pain, and for a moment Rhys feels as if he’ll be dropped. But Jack straightens back up, and movement resumes.

Soon he feels the heat of sunlight beating down on his eyelids. He’s laid on something hard and metal, but Jack’s hands don’t leave him. “You idiot,” he mutters, and there’s burning anger in his voice. “You stupid fucking robotic _idiot_.”

Rhys passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly unrelated, I did a small comic for a scene from Chap. 18 [over on my tumblr](http://wafflability.tumblr.com/post/133601703885/i-was-sad-the-other-night-so-i-did-a-quick-sketchy) if anybody cares/missed it.


	21. Chapter 21

Waking up with intense pain in a Hyperion hospital bed should not be such a regular experience for Rhys, but here he is again. But just because it’s happened a startling number of times, that doesn’t mean he’s getting _used_ to it.

He’s got the usual aches, the tightness down the lengths of his internal cybernetics that twists his guts. Dull ache in one leg, the tender remnants of what should be solid ribs. And a little something extra, even, because head-to-toe agony is never enough. A raw chunk in his mind, like a tooth freshly extracted, a bloody pit in the gums he can’t stop probing with his tongue. 

He still hasn’t opened his eyes because, _ow_ , and everything’s hazy from the no-doubt impressive pain meds they’ve dosed him with, or maybe this thing in his brain, or a combination. He lies still for what could be moments or hours, evaluating the reality of his existence as he struggles to make actual sense of it.

His jaw flexes spasmodically, letting out an aborted groan at the sensation of tightness in his head. Not just a physical tightness, but a mental one as things trickle back in. He can’t remember much. The vault hunters, the stalker, Jack battered and bloody under the heel of Lilith’s boot—

He sucks in a rattling breath of terror. 

“What, does it hurt? Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you decide it’ll be fun to plug your conscious into an untested mind-meld with a giant _stalker_.”

The voice is what it takes for Rhys to finally open his eyes, and a little too suddenly at that. He winces at the sudden rush of light, the blur as his eyes struggle to focus.

“Jack,” he chokes out with relief, and it grates out against sore vocal chords like shards of glass. There’s immediate relief flooding his chest, and then the barely suppressed after-taste of the stalker’s rage, protectiveness, despair, all echoing out from that hollow pit in his brain. His fingers—those of his left hand, anyways, as his prosthetic has apparently been removed—his fingers tighten reflexively in the crisp white linen of his hospital bed.

Jack is sitting in a chair at the side of the bed, alive and well if a little worse for wear. His arm is in a sling, a few still-healing bruises visible at the edges of his mask.

The way he looks down at Rhys is nothing like what he expects. It’s closed, tight, guarded. It’s not the joy of seeing Rhys awake, and it’s not the rage of seeing Rhys hurt. It’s the calm Jack, the one that’s most frightening in a way. But Rhys is feeling too much all at once to stop and consider it.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, collapsing back into the mound of pillows when it’s clear he’s still too weak to properly sit. His right leg is in a cast anyways he realizes, which prohibits getting up and throwing his arms around Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack says tightly.

Rhys can’t help beaming, as confused as his thoughts still are— as much as he’s still carefully trying to skirt around the raw spot in his mind as he talks, the bit that’s throbbing with alien sensation. “What happened? I don’t remember— I only remember telling you to leave, and—“

“Well,” Jack interrupts, prolonging the word bitterly with his tongue curled to the roof of his mouth. “You did something _stupid._ And once you were done being stupid, and the bandits had been scared off by your stupidity, I dragged your ass back to Helios.”

Rhys’ smile falters. The tension is becoming apparent. The deja vu of waking up with Jack next to his hospital bed is quickly fading, because the tone is so different. Is it the drugs, making it feel like this? Damage to his brain? Or is Jack honestly this angry to see him?

“They were going to kill you,” he says, because it’s true. 

The line of Jack’s mouth jumps. “Yeah! And boy, didn’t that just _tug at the ol’ heart strings_.” Rhys flinches, eye ticking at another wave of cacophonous sensation from the back of his mind. Jack leans forward. “I guess that bitch kicked me in the head one too many times, because at first that’s all I could think about. How _loyal_ you were. And,” his voice falters, “you throwing yourself in the way of danger. I actually let it kinda upset me?” Even Jack’s injured arm flexes its fingers convulsively as he talks. Rhys feels not himself, but even like this he knows something is off, and he’s treading molasses trying to figure out _what_. “I even kept coming here to sit by your bed, like some kind of _loser_.

“But then, y’know, a few days ago, something struck me. _How_ did you know to interface with that gauntlet?”

Rhys’ mouth starts to open as his brow furrows. “I—“

Jack stands abruptly, and the screech of the metal stool against the metal flooring vibrates jarringly up Rhys’ spine. “ _So,_ in between scouring Pandora for those filthy bandits, I started watching that backlog of video from your ECHOeye.” He plants one hand on the edge of the bed, pokes the forefinger of the other at Rhys' brow. “Forget that little mod, did we?” The paranoia in his voice is becoming much more evident.

“Jack, I can _tell_ you...”

Jack just responds with a harsh laugh, patting his cheek. “Oh Rhysie, I already know.” His face goes cold, and he’s vibrating with tension. “I know _plenty._ I found out that trusting you was a mistake, for one.” His hand suddenly falls to Rhys' hair, gripping it tightly enough to hurt. Rhys can feel the tremor in Jack’s fingers as he tugs sharply, painfully.

There’s a moment of eye contact, and Rhys can’t hide a sharp inhale of fear. Jack releases him suddenly like he’s caught himself in the act of something unexpected, starts pacing. 

“Now, you starting these side-projects on Pandora with your little _friends_ , that much I knew about.”

Rhys closes his eyes. Of course Jack knew. “I’m sorry, I thought—“

“I said _I knew._ Sure, I guess I didn’t know the whole scope of it, but when you start diverting that much funding in _my_ fucking company I’m gonna know. Still, I didn’t care, Rhys. Anyone that makes it this far in Hyperion is gonna be grifting, or embezzling, or _something_. Using company funds to support their hooker ‘n blow habit, I don’t know. The point is, as far as deceptions go, a little… Misguided altruism, from _you._ ” Jack glances at Rhys for a moment before turning his head away sharply. “That much I could overlook. Especially when it was resulting in smart research, new patents. I figured… I hoped you’d just come to me about it, eventually.”

“I was going to.” Rhys supplies, quietly. “Just so you know.”

Jack’s shoulders shrug loosely. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t matter. D’you know what does matter?”

Rhys waits, quietly. He knows that’s all he can do, with Jack like this.

“Well, first of all— you kept associating with that… What’s his name? Cereal? Sylvia? After I specifically told you not to. You trusted _him_ about your little project before you trusted _me,_ and thanks to that backlog of video feed I got to watch the two of you flirting.” He raises a finger, like ticking items off a list.

His brow scrunches. “We weren’t…”

Jack holds the raised finger haltingly, shooting Rhys a glare. Slowly, raises another. “ _Second_ of all, Peterson came to you about the stalker. And instead of telling Handsome Jack, aka the guy who has given you _everything_ , you decide to keep that little bit of info to yourself.” 

Rhys doesn’t try to interrupt, this time. His stomach is too low, sinking with every word.

A third finger goes up. “Finally,” Jack says, and it’s quieter than what’s come before but not in any way that is comforting. “Finally, I re-watched what happened down there, on Pandora. What happened after I left to get us a shuttle out of there.”

He runs his good hand through his hair.

“I didn’t want you hooked up to that stalker in the first place, you know? That little rat Peterson asked me before he went to you, and I could have told you, if you had been honest with me, I could have _told you_ how dangerous hooking up to that stalker would be. I could have told you there was a good chance any test subject would come out of that link dead _or worse_. But you were hooked up, and it was too late, and you had two of my _biggest enemies cornered_ ,” Jack is back by the bed now, leans in, towering over Rhys. And it’s not the usual intimidation. It’s something worse. It reeks of hurt and betrayal. “And you let them go. They’d just tried to kill me, kicked in my fucking _ribs_ , and you let. Them. Go.” The arm in the sling is straining in a way that must be painful. “Now why would you do a thing like that?”

Rhys holds his breath. When Jack grabs him suddenly by the face, fingers digging harshly into the flesh of Rhys' jaw and cheeks, his struggle is instinctual and rings out from that dead place in him, an animal response to the mad look in Jack’s eyes as the ever-present fury comes unshuttered.

“Do you know,” Jack whispers, leaning closer, lip peeled back in a lupine snarl, “what those people have taken from me?” The way he shakes Rhys' head for emphasis rattles loose another shock of disassociation, and Rhys gasps.

A moment of harsh breathing and Rhys manages to quell the strange urge to run. He hurts from the manhandling, but he forces his breath even. “Tell me,” he says quietly. He wants to understand. Understand what can make Jack hurt him like this.

For a moment Jack’s fingers squeeze— as if he will shatter Rhys with hands alone— but when Rhys’ fingers come hesitantly up, just barely ghosting against his wrist in pain, his grip falters. His forehead falls to Rhys' chest for just a minute, and then he pulls away, fumbles with a bag on the ground.

“Jack—“ Rhys starts.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” Jack bites, and what he produces from the bag is unmistakably Rhys’ revolver. He holds it aloft, making sure Rhys sees. “For all I know— For all I know, _you’re_ the leak. You’re the leak and you, I don’t know, you found a way around that spyware in your head.”

The indignation in Rhys’ chest is immediate, but he’s still in shocked silence as Jack bends to stuff the revolver under the corner of the mattress.

Jack pauses at the door. His back is tense, fingers digging into his palm, shoulders raising slightly as he takes a deep breath. “Gun is loaded. Just in case.”

And he leaves.

* * *

Jack won’t answer Rhys' ECHOs, and he doesn’t come again to see him. But when the doctors switch his pain meds to something altogether stronger that somehow affords greater mental clarity, the doctor mentions off-the-cuff that the drug is incredibly expensive. Rare and natural ingredients, stuff from planets far from here. And Rhys knows it has to be on Jack’s orders, because as a rule Hyperion spends as little as possible on employee health.

Over the next several days of Rhys being conscious— and he’s learned that there was a good week before he saw Jack where he was in and out and simply too doped to remember— he gets visitors. Vaughn and Yvette, true to form, try to smuggle him in a bottle of wine. When that’s confiscated they’ve at least managed a comically large Get Well Soon card, inside of which they’ve doodled him valiantly fighting bandits with a chainsaw in place of his prosthetic. 

“I told you going back to Pandora was a stupid idea bro,” says Vaughn with hands on his hips as he surveys Rhys. 

Yvette is picking through the box of chocolates his mom had sent. “So are you going to tell us the details of what, like, _actually_ happened? Or are you just going to keep repeating “bandit ambush.” She pops a raspberry dark-chocolate into her mouth, and Rhys knows it’s because Yvette is aware of his _hatred_ for raspberry, and somehow his friend pilfering only the chocolates he dislikes is what it takes to make his chest ache with gratefulness for being alive.

“It was a bandit ambush.” He supplies with an apologetic smile. The project is still confidential, as far as he knows. He’s only contacted Fiona and Sasha to let them know their assignments would be on hold for a while (and somewhere underneath Fiona’s jokes about his haggard appearance, he’s fairly certain he had even detected concern.) “At least I’m telling you that much. I think Jack told my mom that I fell off the top level of the food-court during a finger gun fight, so…”

Yvette’s eyebrow arches sharply. “Handsome Jack. Talked to your mother?”

Rhys shakes his head rapidly, a little terrified by the thought. “No no no. He just looked in my personnel file, had a basic message sent to her. Not sure why, but…” He shrugs, tries not to look sad. 

He’s glad that Vaughn and Yvette have been visiting so regularly, taking his mind off of things, because… Well, frankly he’s got a lot he needs distracted from.

Jack’s silent treatment in hurting in ways he wouldn’t expect. Every time he thinks about Jack, there’s a sharp pang of what is almost _panic_ , anxiety when he remembers the look of betrayal in Jack’s eyes. He needs to talk to him more, and yet he can’t— he’s stuck here until the doctors clear him to go. And the thought of eventually confronting him over it is even worse.

Of course that burst of anxiety is nothing compared to what slinks through his chest and grabs his throat when he remembers that day on Pandora. Maybe it’s the drugs that make it feel ages ago one minute and yet still happening in the next. He wakes from naps with his adrenaline pumping, fever dreams of the stalker still filling the corner of his mind. Sometimes, when he’s awake and something catches at the corner of his eye, there’s a flash of a feeling that is not his. When they bring him his breakfast in the mornings, he swears he smells more _sharply_ , that the meat makes his mouth water even though he’s always been more about donuts and cereal.

So, yes. He encourages Vaughn and Yvette’s lunch-time visits. Anything not to think.

* * *

Rhys is close to being released— to bed-rest at home, anyways. The random tremors and night-sweats have all but stopped. The echoes of the stalker in his head are, and he thanks god for it, _gone._

So when the door slides open to reveal Cyrus, perfectly non-threatening and casual in an asymmetrical red button-up and black suit jacket, he’s able to manage more of a genuine smile than he has since finding Jack safe and sound.

“Cyrus!” He says with some surprise as the man strides in to set a vase of assorted flowers at his bedside. Not even the artificial kind, fragrant and perky and arranged in clear faceted glass.

He looks at them for a moment, pulling himself up a bit on his mound of pillows. “Are those for me?” He has approximately zero idea what types of flowers they are, but their brightness breaks up the sterility of the room and he’s honestly surprised the accounting head thought to bring him anything at all.

Cyrus smiles, sliding into the seat at Rhys' bed-side. He gently rearranges the flowers that have been pressed together during transport, primping them almost absentmindedly. Rhys picks up the crispness of his aftershave as much as he does the gentle sweet of the flowers. “They are indeed, unless you think I make a habit of carrying flowers around for myself. I’m sorry it took me so long to come— I have to admit, I’ve been a bit wary of running into Jack…”

“—No, I mean… That’s more than understandable.” Rhys laughs. He doesn’t mention that his hospital room is currently one of the last places Cyrus has to worry about running into Jack. “It’s nice of you to come at all. And unnecessary. I’m sure I still look a little rough, but I promise it was worse.” He gestures at his face with his right hand, having convinced the doctors to let him wear his prosthetic again during the day. Jack, it seems, had told them the discomfort it could cause in bed— but when he’s awake, and somewhere strange, he feels naked without it.

“You look good.” Cyrus says, clasping his hands between his knees. His eyes search Rhys' face. “You’ll be out of here soon, then?”

“Yeah, in a few days as a matter of fact. Going home for a bit at least.” Right, as soon as he storms their— _Jack’s _office, anyways. He’d already decided in the last few days that he wasn’t going to let Jack ignore him so easily. “Not sure when exactly I’ll be back at work,” he adds, quietly.__

__Cyrus watches him for a moment, smile almost deceptively still. “Well,” he says finally, “I’m sure the doctors know best.”_ _

__Rhys nods, even though the doctors really don’t know _what_ to expect with him. There’s no way of telling if the side-effects from the stalker are truly gone, whether they’ll resurface again or worsen. There aren’t exactly previous cases to compare him to._ _

__There’s a stretch of pregnant silence. Rhys isn’t sure what to say, not with Cyrus' strange air of coolness. Something is setting the hairs on his arms on end. He’s become accustomed to easy friendliness with Cyrus, and he’s not sure why things are tense— perhaps Cyrus is just a bit edgy because he knows what exactly _happened_ is confidential, and he’s floundering for what to ask._ _

__“You know Rhys, I really do like you.” Cyrus says finally, standing and straightening the lines of his sleeves. The corners of his eyes crease with something like regret. “I’m very sorry you got hurt.”_ _

__“It’s fine,” he says, “really, I’m okay.”_ _

__Cyrus nods loosely, strolling over to the door and for a moment Rhys thinks he’s about to leave mid-conversation, but— He just places his thumb and forefinger over the touchpad by the door, activating the internal lock with a whir._ _

__Rhys' stomach goes cold._ _

__Cyrus stands for a moment, looking at the closed door thoughtfully. “You weren’t _supposed_ to be okay,” he says, turning around. “I mean, this is a last resort really. As hard as I’ve worked to get this far…” Rhys' eyes immediately lock on the slim pistol he slides out, hidden neatly by the lines of his well-tailored jacket. _ _

__“You’re…” A million thoughts are flashing through Rhys' head. The amount his pulse has managed to quicken in such a short period of time is truly impressive. “You’re the leak?”_ _

__Cyrus nods, almost _sadly_. “Yes. I mean, _one_ of them. You’ve been here long enough to know how many leaks there are at Hyperion.”_ _

__Rhys' fingers twitch. There’s no use screaming— for one, Cyrus can shoot him in a second. And Rhys knows very well the rooms in the med-wing are mostly soundproof, because nobody particularly enjoys hearing the screams when the surgeons get a little experimental._ _

__His revolver is so close, just under the edge of his mattress where Jack left it. He thinks of Jack leaving it there, warning him._ _

__Cyrus looks at his watch. “This is a bit awkward, isn’t it? Would you prefer I… Get it done with now? Is that kinder? It’s just, we have a bit of time before… Well.”_ _

__Rhys’ tongue presses to the roof of his mouth. _Think, think, how to get to the revolver._ “No, I still. I still have questions.” He says, throat tight. Stalling. “If we’re friends you owe me that much. Right?” Sweat is beading on his back. The pain in his head, the rawness that had been slowly receding over these last several days— it’s back, and it pounds into him now with a vengeance._ _

__Cyrus seems to consider. There’s pity in his eyes, unmistakable, and its implications curl into something hot and angry in Rhys' chest. “Of course.”_ _

__Rhys swallows. “Pandora. The vault hunters. It was you who tipped them off?”_ _

__A simple nod. “Yes. Well, partially. I told them when he’d be there, at least. When the best time to strike was.”_ _

__“Before we left,” Rhys says softly, “I told you we were going down, together.”_ _

__“You did.”_ _

__Another flash of pain, tempered by guilt. When his ECHO eye glitches, just for a moment, he covers a flinch by sucking in a breath._ _

__“And Peterson?”_ _

__“The little scientist? Yes. He’s how I found out the location in the first place. But Jack did a pretty good job of cutting off communications there, in the end. I hadn’t heard from Peterson in months. So I waited for you to help me out.”_ _

__His breath is coming quicker. He supposes that, to Cyrus, it might seem like he’s hyperventilating out of fear, panic. His hand shoots to grip the edge of the mattress as if he’s steadying himself._ _

__“So why get close to me? Why kill me now?” Rhys' vision is blurred with how intense the pounding in his brain is. It’s not like when he was linked to the stalker, not the same whirlwind tug of emotion. It’s like someone knocking at a locked door, over and over, slipping notes through the crack._ _

__The normalcy of Cyrus' laugh now, the fact that Rhys has heard him laugh similarly many times before, it is far more sinister than Jack’s own overtly manic outbursts. “ _Rhys,_ getting close to someone who is basically running Hyperion in all but name is always a safe bet. Somebody close to Handsome Jack. There’s any number of ways you could have been useful.” He sighs._ _

__“And killing you? I didn’t know if it would come to that, but now… Well, this is how I get Jack out of his office, and off guard. Right about…” he appraises his watch, “ _now,_ the doctor I bribed is going to notify Jack that you’re in critical condition. It’ll take him maybe ten minutes to get here from his office, he’ll burst in, I’ll shoot him.” Again, he looks apologetic. “But if I leave you alive, _you_ get Hyperion after that, there’s no doubt in my mind. You’ve been effectively equal to Jack for months now. The board would keep you on, even if you don’t have the balls to assert your position personally. And then you’re just another obstacle.”_ _

__Another spasm, and Rhys is slumped to the left, fingers curled further around the mattress edge so that his middle finger _just barely_ pokes under, touches the cold steel beneath. _ _

__“So you want the company for yourself?” He says slowly, letting the pain creep into his voice. Hoping it will disarm Cyrus just a little. “You’re not with the Crimson Raiders, they were just a tool. This isn’t about Pandora. This is about taking over.”_ _

__Cyrus walks to the side of the bed slowly, still disarmingly graceful, even with the little pistol in his hand. He leans down, braces a hand on a knee to bring himself more level with Rhys' downturned face, the gun dangling in the other._ _

__“Yes. Do you know why?”_ _

__Another shaky breath. The beating in his head is gaining urgency. His ECHOeye dilates, contracts. “Because you’re a power hungry asshole, like everyone else in this company?”_ _

__Cyrus smiles. “Maybe. But really, I was doing pretty well before I came here, you know. I worked for a little company you might have heard of, until Jack _crippled us,_ bought us out.”_ _

__“Atlas.”_ _

__“Yes, Atlas.” The smile is bitter now, pulling tense lines underneath the neatly trimmed beard. Cyrus looks at him for a moment longer before he straightens._ _

__“Well, I’m sorry again, Rhys. But judging by the time—“ Cyrus raises his wrist to look down at his watch again, and when his eyes raise Rhys has faked another convulsion, slumping just enough to pull the revolver out before swinging back up with its familiar weight in his hands and flicking off the safety._ _

__He doesn’t hesitate. He just shoots. And unlike in the cave with Lilith, he does not aim for non-vitals. He empties the chambers with steady arms._ _

__The holes from the corrosive rounds are still sizzling when Cyrus' body hits the ground._ _


	22. Chapter 22

Nobody hears the gunshot, not through thick walls and a soundproofed door. Rhys is left locked in with Cyrus' fresh corpse for nearly ten minutes, gun still in his hand and struggling to breathe. There are pangs in his head, shaking his nerves with jolts down the length of his cybernetics. With the pain he doesn’t even think to stretch for the call button on the wall, doesn’t think to try and get out of bed.

Jack arrives on time anyways, shoving angrily past the doctor who’s presumably unlocked the door. “—nd if he was getting goddamned _worse_ I don’t know why you wouldn’t have told me earlier—“  
He freezes mid-step and mid-sentence at the soft squelch of his sneaker in a pool of blood. Quite a bit has leaked out from the newly formed craggy hole in Cyrus' once carefully groomed head. His eyes flick lightning fast from the carnage up to Rhys, who sits shaking, the revolver resting gently in the pooled sheets of his lap. 

The look of confusion on Jack’s face stretches to the wide gesture of his hands as he raises his dripping foot in disgust. “The _fuck_ —“

Over Jack’s shoulder, Rhys tracks the exact moment of the doctor’s stunned surprise as he realizes that, one: Rhys is alive and two: Cyrus is dead. The man freezes like a deer in headlights, and it’s abundantly obvious to Rhys even in his current discomfort that this is the accomplice Cyrus had mentioned.

“ _Jack_ ,” he manages to yell, pointing emphatically just as the wide-eyed man turns to flee. Without hesitation, Jack spins on his heel and with a vicious snarl grabs the doctor roughly by the hair, pulling him back to his chest with an arm around his throat. He doesn’t stop to ask questions; his pistol is against the man’s temple before Rhys can even attempt to explain, the resulting kickback as he fires jerking his shoulder once, twice. 

The doctor’s skull muffles the shots slightly, but not enough to cover the distinct sound of gunshots, which result in screams and the slap of feet further down the hall. Rhys’ eyes squeeze shut with another tremor, and Jack lets the body slump to the floor, rushing immediately to Rhys' bedside.

His face, torso, hands— spattered in the blood of the doctor as he kneels and grabs Rhys' arm. “Hey, hey, you alright?” He asks, eyes searching over Rhys' face and body. His thumb smears red into Rhys’ cheek when he raises a hand to still it during the next tremor, left hand removing the revolver from Rhys’ lap to place it on the floor. Rhys can only nod, gripping at Jack’s forearm as something dark and angry flashes in his head. Like the velvet shape of the stalker, like teeth deep in his core. 

“Kiddo, hey, shh-shh-shh. Calm down, you’re safe, you’re safe. Did he hurt you?” Something dark flashes in Jack’s eyes, other hand coming to frame Rhys' face. “If he laid a single fucking _finger_ on you—”

A woman just past the doorway must have decided to investigate the noise, because there’s a shrill scream, and Jack snaps around to yell with clear anger, “Oh _what_ , what do you have to yell about? Put the god damn wing on lock-down and get a fucking _mop._ ” 

“I’m okay—“ Rhys finally manages to gasp, stomach tightening as he suppresses a wave of nausea. Jack’s fingertips press more firmly into Rhys' face, a half-stroke. “Just my head...” 

Jack looks again to the corpse, back to Rhys, to the revolver. “What the hell happened?”

When the guards arrive Jack has them drag Cyrus' body into the hall, gives them orders to keep everyone locked down in the wing, then posts two men outside the room and locks the door behind him.

He’s surprisingly patient, waiting for Rhys to gather himself. Vibrating with quiet fury, sure, but the point is he doesn’t interrupt Rhys' halting narrative. As the noise in his head quiets down a bit, he manages the summary explanation of the events. Cyrus is (was) the leak, Cyrus is (was) former Atlas jockeying for control of Hyperion, and Cyrus is (definitely) now dead.

Rhys is admittedly shocked when Jack pulls his head against his blood-stained chest at the end, buries fingers deep in the mess of Rhys' hair. They haven’t spoken in nearly two weeks, and Rhys essentially just confirmed that it was his own negligence that led to the first assassination attempt anyways. Talking to Cyrus after Jack had ordered him to stop was the only reason the man had known when they’d both be on Pandora.

He thinks Jack is _shaking_ , just a little, just a small tremor as he murmurs into his hair; “Good shooting, pumpkin.”

And then he’s up, no yelling at Rhys, no insults, no reference to their recent argument. He’s bursting back through the door to command the chaos of the medical wing. Rhys can hear his voice booming back through the open door.

“Alright, bring me everyone in this shithole _one-by-one._ Nobody in or out until I give the word— No, scratch that, get me Lisa from Cybernetics— and the two of you, outside this door at all times. The rest of you do something about this fucking _mess_.” There’s a thudding squelch, and Rhys is reasonably sure Jack’s just kicked a corpse.

After it’s all calmed down— after Jack’s done his best to make sure nobody _else_ in the wing was in on Cyrus' scheme, after Lisa’s done an exam of her own on Rhys with little conclusion other than ‘stalker messed up your head’— Jack tells him to get dressed, grabs Rhys' revolver, and they go to the shuttle bay.

He’s loaded into the back of Jack’s personal shuttle and feeling marginally better by this point, the echoes in his head quiet if not nonexistent. Jack sits in the leather-contoured seat across from him, silent. Arms crossed and still covered in blood, which isn’t exactly an abnormal look for him.

“Where are we going?” Rhys asks tiredly. Jack’s hair is mussed, falling in his face, and Rhys can’t begin to read what he’s feeling at the moment. He can barely tell what he’s feeling himself, other than dull pain and the relief of being alive.

“To my place.” Jack replies. He continues watching Rhys intently, like he’s expecting him to keel over and die in the next fifteen minutes, and staring will somehow prevent that.

Rhys' brow knits as he leans his head back into the seat, squeezing his eyes shut at another shock of fire in his head. “Your… Uh, why, exactly?”

“ _Apparently_ I can’t trust a single person on Helios, which I realize now I kind of knew anyways. So I’m taking your wiry ass home until you’re healed.”

He’s too drained to argue, or to ask why Jack’s suddenly so concerned about him. It helps, being in somebody else’s presence, helps him pull himself back in, if that makes sense. He doesn’t understand why shooting— _killing_ Cyrus— why it’s brought his symptoms back so suddenly. There’s no link with the stalker anymore, so why is that strange area inside suddenly so active again?

Jack doesn’t talk for the remainder of the ride, just watches Rhys carefully. Rhys gets the sense he’s being quiet for Rhys’ sake, because he can practically _feel_ the restraint vibrating from Jack, notices how his leg starts to bounce at several points only to be stilled with obvious effort.

When they get to Jack’s private garage he gets out first, actually takes Rhys' arm and helps him through the door. He doesn’t go so far as carrying him to the elevator but Rhys notices as he limps along that Jack stays close, that his hand hovers behind Rhys as if making ready to catch him.

Emerging at Jack’s penthouse the floor glows gently to life beneath his feet. Jack does touch him now, wraps a hand firmly around his prosthesis. “You’re covered in blood and you smell like a foot. Shower.”

Rhys shoots him a glare. “I’m covered in blood because _you_ smeared it all over me.”

Jack looks down at his own blood-spattered torso, tilts his head like he’s considering the point. “Acknowledged. Now come on. Shower, then sleep.”

Right, mother-hen Jack; add that to the list of things he never expected to see, right underneath “giant stalker.” The overhead light in the expansive bathroom flicks on automatically as they enter, the floor tiles glowing softly red, fading to orange, yellow. Soothing colors of sunset, or a distant smudge of galaxy.

He suppresses another full-bodied shudder as his cybernetics practically twitch in his head. He has to stop, leaning against the doorframe with a groan, Jack’s hand on his arm helping to keep him upright.

Jack raises a brow wryly. “Yeah, okay, so shower— bad idea. Bath?”

He takes a breath and nods as the pain rolls past again, straightening. Jack sits him on the lid of the toilet (which is ridiculously grandiose and _literally_ gold, because Jack apparently couldn’t help ruining an otherwise beautifully designed apartment.) The bathroom itself is huge, and Rhys has taken hurried showers in it a few times before, but the bath— big enough to fit at least three people, honestly— that he’s never had the pleasure of using.

Jack crouches next to the huge black tub and flips open the panel on the wall, hitting a few buttons— water preference pre-sets. The faucets flows to life, and after testing the temperature with his hand he picks up a bottle of soap, squirting it in liberally.

“So, we’re talking again?” Rhys asks, crossing his arms over his knees and folding forward to rest his head. He has to speak loudly to cover the rush of water, and the way his voice bounces against the hard brushed metal of the walls makes his head ring. He watches Jack’s shoulders tense, then loosen as he messes more with the soap, the buttons. No response.

“For what it’s worth I’m sorry. You were right— it was my fault we got ambushed on Pandora. Indirectly, but...” He scrubs his face with his human hand.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I’m the one who told Cyrus we’d both be down there—“

“Yeah, and if you hadn’t do you _honestly_ think he wouldn’t have tried some other way, some other time?” Jack asks, throwing his hands up in exasperation and straightening back up. Being surprisingly rational, for Jack. He continues watching the bath fill, back turned to Rhys. “The guy had a massive hate-boner for me. You can’t tell me he wasn’t playing other angles.”

Well, Jack’s right, and Rhys knows it. But all he can think about is how angry Jack was at him. The hurt betrayal in his eyes when he talked about Rhys hiding the truth, letting the vault hunters go.

The muscles of his stomach clench at another wave of discomfort. It passes. They’re coming slower and weaker, more spread out.

“And Pandora?” He asks, sitting up slowly to stare at where his mismatched hands grip his knees.

“What about it?” Jack leans forwards to turn off the tub, which has filled up quickly thanks to its multiple spigots.

“You were angry,” Rhys says, too loudly at first as if the water is still running, wincing at his own voice. “I let them go, and you said—“

“ _I know what I said_ ,” Jack turns, walking over to him. He smells like iron, like blood, but there’s a waft of the soap as he takes Rhys' arm gently in both hands. His fingers smooth up to poise near the first disengagement latch by the shoulder coupling, just beneath the cut-off sleeve of his shirt. 

Rhys' heart skips a beat at the familiar touch before he raises the arm obligingly for removal, meeting Jack’s gaze. Jack’s fingers are deft, firm and thorough. He’s done this enough times for Rhys, now, and again the familiarity between them twists mockingly in Rhys' chest.

Jack pauses as he finishes the detachment, hefting the weight of Rhys' now lifeless arm thoughtfully. “I can’t blame you for not killing them. I mean, yeah, I kind of _can_ , but I can’t be… Mad, I guess.” He turns and gently lays the arm on the suspended glass counter. “The reasons I hate the vault hunters,” he braces his hands on the edge of the counter, for a moment, like he’s struggling to think. “They’re the same reasons I stayed away from you, after.”

Rhys frowns, considers what Jack’s said as best he can through the noise in his head. “That doesn’t make sense,” he concludes.

Jack waves a hand, turning back. “Yeah, I know, I know, I’m not good at. _Saying_ these kinds of things, alright? Cut me some slack.” He kneels beside Rhys, reaching to unbutton the front of the one-armed dress shirt he had hastily thrown on before leaving Helios. Rhys watches, eyes flicking from Jack’s fingers, which stutter ever so slightly in their task, up to his face, still orange where he made a half-assed attempt at wiping away the blood.

“Those people, they took things from me. But at the same time,” his voice goes tighter here, his face twitching as he finishes unbuttoning Rhys' shirt and pushes it back over his shoulders, “at the same time, the things they took, I had my own part in losing them.” Rhys shrugs the rest of the way out of the shirt, being as quiet as he can, like he’ll break whatever spell has Jack talking about _feelings_ and his _past_ in such a strangely human way.

“And then I almost lost you,” he adds tightly, staring at Rhys' bared chest, raising a hand to lay gently over the trail of fading bruises that spread across his ribs. The healing accelerant the Hyperion doctors used made short work of the break in his leg, his fractured ribs. Bruising and soreness is all that’s left to show for his tumble off the stalker. 

“What did you lose?” Rhys asks quietly as Jack pulls away to attend to his boots. He feels too raw right now to tip-toe around things, wants his questions answered for once. Jack’s referenced this before— sacrifice, loss. It’s hard to imagine under the bravado what things like that could mean to Handsome Jack.

Jack’s responding laugh cuts through the steamy air of the bathroom. It’s strained. He pulls off Rhys' left boot unhurriedly, placing it aside. “Oh, geez, I dunno. Let’s start with the last person dumb enough to get tangled up with me beyond a quick fuck. My last girlfriend? Yeah, she’s dead. Vault hunters.”

Rhys' eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Something like that would certainly explain Jack’s knee-jerk reaction to Rhys letting them go, especially if it was Brick or Lilith involved specifically. “I’m, um. I’m sorry.”

Jack shrugs, takes off the other boot, rolling off Rhys' socks one by one. “Nah. I mean, Nisha was— She knew what she was doing. What she was getting into, with me. Tough woman.” He stands, pulling Rhys up with him gently, steadying him when he sways a little. The pangs have stopped, but he’s light headed still, weak. He starts undoing the fly of his pants with his remaining hand as Jack watches, waiting, letting him lean into his shoulder for support.

“You sound… Less angry than I expected.” So, dead girlfriend. Not the reason for Jack’s fury then, at least not wholly.

“I was plenty pissed, at the time. But trust me, Nisha— She never did a damn thing she didn’t want to do. Going out high octane and shooting bandits, that was what she’d have wanted.” His voice is fond, but not raw the way Rhys would expect. Rhys kicks his pants down the rest of the way, moves for his boxers, but Jack holds him still. “Let me. You look like you’re about to hurl all over the floor, and it’s a bitch to clean. Not that I clean it myself, but, y’know.” Jack moves to pull the boxers off, holding each calf steady in turn as Rhys steps through the leg-holes. He rises to guide Rhys the rest of the way to the bath.

Rhys puts one leg in first, then the other, grateful for Jack’s strong arms helping to lower him in. The water is perfect— hot enough to steam, but not enough to burn. The back of the tub contours to his back as he slides down and he leans into it, letting out a groan of relief at the effect on his tight muscles. The water goes up to his collarbones, and it’s the only tub he’s been in in his life where his gangly legs haven’t needed to fold to allow this much submersion. Jack pulls his eyes away, taking a seat on the tub’s edge.

Rhys settles into the water, and when he realizes Jack isn’t going to continue talking, he asks. “And?”

Jack turns to frown at him. “What do you mean, ‘and?’ This some weird jealousy thing? You want me to tell you you’re the prettiest, or something?”

Rhys snorts, sinking further into the water. “No. I’m not as vain as you are.” It makes Jack’s lips twitch into a smile, just for a moment. “No, I mean… You said ‘start with.’” Rhys pauses to dip his head back for a moment, dunking his face to wet his hair as he considers his next words. He comes back up for a deep breath, rubbing the water from his eyes. “So. Was there someone else, that you lost?”

Jack’s hands tighten where they grip the tub’s edge. His sleeves are rolled up like usual, and Rhys can see how taut the muscles of his arms are, the obvious tension. It’s the same way he’d looked the first time he took Rhys here, so angry at his own desire.

The silence is long and charged, and Rhys waits. It’s long minutes before Jack finally speaks, looking down at the floor so that all Rhys can see is the back of him, the corner of his jaw.

“I got my daughter killed.” 

He says it matter-of-factly, inflectionless. There’s a small splash of water as Rhys pulls himself up.

“I mean, I’ve never admitted that but, fuck, y’know. I did. I made her hate me _so goddamn much_ that she worked with the vault hunters. She let them kill her, just to get away from me.” 

Rhys freezes. His mind rushes through how it must have looked, to Jack, when he let the vault hunters go. How it must have reminded him. “I never knew you had a daughter.” He says, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

Jack turns to look at him. Rhys has seen a thousand emotions painted across those features, shades of anger and lust and gleeful madness. But he has never once seen what spreads there now.

Grief.

“Yeah. Her name was Angel. And she’s dead.” Rage creeps in to the cracks of his voice, burns behind his eyes. “Are you seeing a pattern here, Rhys? People I know, they have a nasty habit of dying. Hell, myself included! And then, you almost—”

Rhys leans to grab Jack’s wrist fingers curling around the tattoo there. He can feel the tendons jutting angrily against his own slick hand. “ _\--I’m alive,_ ” he says emphatically, bracing his knees against the bottom of the tub so that he can use his hand to clutch at Jack’s shirt. “I’m here.” 

They lock eyes. He doesn’t know all of what Jack’s done in the past, other than that much of it is undeniably _bad_. But part of him, the largest part, also doesn’t care. Not the way he should. When has anyone else even seen Jack this way, felt something beneath the killer and the leader?

Jack kisses him, restrained, fingers gentle in Rhys’ damp hair, and Rhys doesn’t particularly care that he’s soaking Jack’s shirt as his hand clutches tighter. They kiss until Rhys' knees ache from where they press in the tub, until Jack is leaning so far over the water in his effort to consume Rhys that his arms are the only thing keeping Rhys from falling backwards.

Their lips part, just enough for Jack to absentmindedly kiss away a droplet of water that traces its way down the swell of Rhys' lips. Rhys sucks in a breath in response, catches the red of Jack’s shirt in the corner of his eye, and suddenly there is _pain_ again.

He gasps, his fingers spasming open and losing his grip on Jack, followed by his balance, sliding back into the tub, trying to catch himself with the arm that’s not there and slamming his spine hard. He can feel his ECHOeye dilating wildy and he tips his head back with a groan, riding it out.

“Christ,” Jack says, instantly standing to haul Rhys further up so that his back is supported by the contour of the bath more comfortably again, frantically stroking damp tangles of hair from his forehead. “Rhys? You okay?” He’s panicked. “Do I need to call Lisa, or—“

Rhys sighs as the fit tapers off, willing his muscles to uncoil. “No, I’m fine, I’m fine.” Maybe he’s _not_ , but Lisa can’t do a damn thing about it anyways. He pushes himself further up, pressing his head back. “It’s been better, I don’t know why… Killing Cyrus, I think it made things worse again.”

Jack kneels beside the tub, forearms absolutely soaked. He’s still touching Rhys, stroking over pieces of his skin like he’s feeling for abnormalities, confirming he’s really truly breathing. He seems to catch himself and leans to grab a loofah with a grunt, a way to use his nervous energy. He dampens it, starts to rub it across what patches of skin he can reach.

Having Jack attend to him like this is weird, unexpected. “Y’know, I can wash myself.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, okay, mister walking bullet magnet. Pretty sure you’d find a way to drown.” Attempted normalcy, like Jack hadn’t just confessed to having a daughter, or being somehow responsible for her death. Like Rhys hadn’t killed a man today. 

“What does it feel like?” Jack asks, lower.

Rhys lets his eyes close, leans his head back. It’s incredibly comforting, Jack touching him like this, enveloped in the water. He breathes deeply, avoids thinking of the dull incomprehension on Cyrus' face when the bullets tore into his skull. Tries not to think of the bone splintering, the corrosive charge in the rounds melting through brain and hair.

“It just _hurts_ ,“ he says finally, with a laugh and a wince. “It’s like there’s this place in my head, like I can actually feel it there, something that’s never been there before. Until…”

“The stalker.” Jack squeezes some of the soapy water from the loofah, splays the fingers of his other hand across Rhys' neck to tilt it for access.

“Yeah.” He opens his eyes, focuses on where his toes peek out pink at the other end. “When I was hooked in, I could… Feel it? Pieces of what the stalker felt, I think. Feelings I’ve never had, body parts I’ve never had. It made my cybernetics burn, they don’t even have pain-receptors but it _felt_ like they did. It was like someone splitting me open and setting them on fire.” His eyebrows knit. Jack lifts his arm to wash. With every stroke, the blood that stained Jack’s hands lightens, threads the water orange with its dissipation. Rhys has to look away, curls his toes with another wave of pain.

“And shooting _that bastard_.” Jack’s voice modulates into hatred. “That’s got you… Feeling it, again?”

“Yes.”

They don’t talk, after that, quiet at Jack continues his ministrations on the length of Rhys' body. His strokes aren’t sensual, not exactly gentle either, but hesitant. Expecting Rhys to break. Rhys' head is muddled now by the conflicting sensations of comfort and pain, and he’s surprised when Jack’s hand dips below the water to wash and finds him half-hard.

Jack lets go of the loofah, and Rhys freezes with a gasp at the skin contact of the next stroke, which is more investigative than erotic. Jack looks at him full in the face for a moment, considering. Rhys squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment, because after today’s events and the conversation they’ve just had, it seems like an inappropriate time to get wood— but they shoot back open when Jack repeats the motion much more deliberately, and then again, and again.

It’s going a long way towards distracting him, so he murmurs an encouragement and leans as far towards Jack as he can, face slumping into his shoulder and hand shooting from the water to grip the tub’s side for support as his hips twitch.

Jack leans over the edge of the bath, pressing his lips to Rhys' damp hair, nosing there as the languorous strokes continue. It’s slow and unhurried, lacks the franticness of their past encounters. Almost frustrating, combined with the thin barrier of the water between their skin. But enough to overwhelm Rhys with the slow slide towards gratification, Jack’s breath on the side of his face, the embrace of the water.

“Jack—“ he mumbles, after what seems to be forever, as Jack toys with the tip for a moment, a responding rumble deep in his own chest as he breathes Rhys in. 

“Never again,” Jack says, tips Rhys' head back with his forehead to press his lips into the slick juncture of his neck. “I won’t let you get hurt, not again.”

Rhys moans as much at the note of tender anger in Jack’s voice as he does the sensation. Something in Jack’s voice hitches desperately along with Rhys' hips. “I’m not going to lose you.”

Jack’s lips find Rhys' just as he comes, possessive, swallowing the resulting cries as his body stutters out its tired orgasm. Jack is breathing almost as heavily as Rhys, dripping water down the length of his nose from how he’s rubbed against Rhys so thoroughly. But he doesn’t move to free his own hardness from his pants, doesn’t drag Rhys' hand to it or give any indication he’s concerned with his own wants.

He gives Rhys time to recover, instead— to lay open mouthed and close-eyed in the heated tub, the arm that had propped on its ledge now gripping weakly at the firmness of Jack’s bicep. Then he gently removes Rhys' hand, stands to open a compartment in the wall and produce a large black towel. “Time to get out, cupcake. Before you turn to a raisin.”

Jack has to help him stand, this time not so much because of pain as pure _exhaustion_ , exhaustion in every sense of the word. He half-lifts him out of the tub, helps to dry him, thorough. Not exactly platonic in his careful consideration of Rhys' body, but also not seeking anything. Then he leads him to the bed, which Rhys climbs up and collapses into gratefully, watching Jack peel off his blood-spattered clothing, kick the pile carelessly away.

When he moves to climb in, Rhys pushes himself up weakly, stopping him.

“Wait. Jack, your mask. Can you…”

Jack freezes— There’s the look again, for a moment, like he’s about to bolt— But then his hands go up to the latches, two fingers bracing the sides as the thumb of his opposite hand flicks the catch, the hinge loosening and detaching. He pauses with it still on his face, because Rhys is fairly certain he never takes the damn thing off, before removing it and laying it to rest on the night-stand.

When he climbs into the bed he pulls Rhys to him firmly, and the press of skin has never felt so good to Rhys as it does now. The ridge of Jack’s scar brushes him when he kisses his forehead, and Rhys sighs. He’s too tired and warm to worry about tomorrow, about the pain in his head. Jack is with him, and he thinks—

He thinks he loves him.

“Jack…”

“Go to sleep.”

He does.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, super sorry it's taking so long to finish this bad boy off. I'm estimating 1 chapter left, 2 at the most, but they'll be posted together if it ends up being that long. Life has been hectic so writing is a bit hard, but I still love you guys for taking the time to read this <3

Rhys refuses to be Jack’s house pet.

“I need to go back to work!” Rhys shouts in exasperation, throwing his arms in the air.  He stands like that, hands held up, waiting for Jack to acknowledge him.  But Jack merely raises his eyebrows, unimpressed, popping a piece of sushi into his mouth.  The amount of wasabi on it is obscene, scooped from the plate that balances on his stomach.  He’s slouched in the square black couch, feet kicked up on the softly glowing cube of the coffee-table.  He is not, apparently, any more receptive to Rhys’ cause than he was yesterday.

Rhys huffs, letting his hands fall.  His own plate is abandoned on the table.  He hasn’t left Jack’s apartment in nearly a month and the itch of boredom has been creeping in since day one, especially with Jack gone, spending long stretches on Helios.

“I was cleared to leave the med wing before—“ He pauses at the flash of blood in his mind, swallowing back the reflexive illness that comes with it. “—Before what _happened_ ” he finishes lamely.  He learned pretty quickly what happens when he thinks on the gore too long, the lingering foreign thing in his brain tending to rack him with shudders.

Jack spears a piece of nigiri with his fork.  Rhys is 100% sure he is using it to annoy him.  When Jack had gotten home with the sushi, a peace-offering to a Rhys who had been climbing up the walls and refused another night of “ultra-take-out” (which was just Jack’s term for ordering pizza, burgers, and fried chicken all in one night), Rhys had offered him a pair of the disposable chopsticks that came in the bag.  Jack had refused.  Rhys had said, _”Oh, yeah, I guess it’s actually traditional to eat with your hands to avoid distorting the shape—”_

And had been cut off by Jack stabbing a fork through a piece of sashimi.

“Still having problems with the brain stuff?” Jack asks conversationally, not even looking up from his plate.

Rhys feels himself wilting.  “Well, okay, yeah, but—“

Jack clicks his tongue, waving a forkful of crumbling sushi in the air like it’s a flag.  “Well then! How about a big fat ‘no.’”  He stuffs the bite into his mouth.

Rhys glares, barely lifting his feet as he shuffles over to flop down next to Jack, retrieving his plate.  It’s genuinely nice sushi, because Jack is doing his best to please Rhys in the few ways he knows how, even if he still goes through the motions of antagonizing him by mangling it.

But no, the spasms in Rhys’ head— the shadow that had seemed to be receding until he had, well, straight-up blown a hole in Cyrus’s face— those aren’t gone.  They’re not debilitating but they’re there, periodically bringing him to his knees in the middle of everyday tasks, curling his head between his knees just to keep from tumbling into some very unpleasant place within himself.  He can feel the edges of that place, where the alien feelings come from, but it’s wide and deep and incomprehensible.

 It very visibly upsets Jack to see the attacks, brings out the tendons in his arms and the twitch in his jaw. Although he acts calm when he braces Rhys, leading his shaking frame to the nearest flat surface to sit, there have been more than a few expensive vases and plates smashed later, when he hears again from the doctors and the scientists and any manner of specialists that they simply don’t know what’s wrong with Rhys.

He’s been working from here, at least— Jack casually brought him all of his research and data on Pandora after a few days, allocated a larger budget to his efforts in Pandoran infrastructure, which was apparently his tacitly given permission to continue— but he finds himself anxious. His toes are only dipping into the rapids of Hyperion’s daily dealings, and he would rather wade in neck deep.

He toys with his food, aware that he’s pouting.  His shoulder rests comfortably against Jack’s.  “Vaughn and Yvette think you’re holding me captive,” he says conversationally.  “Whenever I ECHO them they say, like, ‘blink twice if Jack’s got you chained in a dungeon!  Okay, wrinkle your nose if he just stopped you from blinking!’”

Jack hmms, letting his legs splay wider, so that his knee presses to Rhys’.  “Y’know, I can’t stop you from leaving,”  he says, mouth full.  “Well I mean I _could_ , cuz this place is rigged with some sweet laser-beams and everyone between here and Elpis works for me. But I guess what I mean is I won’t.”

Rhys wrinkles his brow, placing his plate aside again and letting his head fall to rest on Jack’s shoulder.  He stares at the chopsticks in his hand, Jack’s chewing vibrating through him.  “Yeah, but you won’t let me back on Helios, or into my own apartment unless I bring like five bodyguards, which I am _not_  subjecting Vaughn to…”

“Yeah, because you wouldn’t be safe,”  Jack grunts.  “Your brain is scrambled like a goddamn egg, and you wouldn’t even notice if you were in danger.  So.”  He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to calm himself.  Rhys lets his eyes drift shut tiredly, inhaling the delicate scent of the sushi and the fabric softener of Jack’s clothes. He frowns when something cold suddenly presses to his lips.

“Open up.  I didn’t splash out on this fancy-ass raw fish to have you starving yourself.”  Rhys glowers, opening his eyes enough to see the piece of sushi Jack has pushed against his lips.  He tightens them firmly, and Jack prods insistently in response.  “C’mon cupcake, quit pouting.”  Another pointed jab of sushi.  A few pieces of rice fall free, into Rhys’s lap and his narrowed eyes swivel to Jack.  Unamused.

“I’ve seen those pretty lips open for less,” Jack purrs, leaning in and grinning like a shark.  It’s a stand-off.  Jack is clearly trying to distract him from the topic at hand.  He may not be threatening the way he was when Rhys started as his PA, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less of a manipulator.

Rhys sees Jack’s varying operating modes for what they are.  Smooth, threatening, flirtatious, violent, joking.  They’re all tools that Jack has built up into a personality, insurances that things go the way he wants.  And they work on nearly everyone.  But less and less do they work on Rhys.

He tries to keep his lips pointedly stiff, crossing his arms, but the corners of his mouth start twitching when Jack begins poking his side, right in the soft ticklish fat below his ribs.

“Oh, ticklish there, huh Rhysie?” Jack grins, moving to try and stare directly into Rhys’s eyes.  Jack’s fingers start dancing along his side with more effort, and Rhys is tossing his head from side-to side now as his stomach jumps silently with repressed laughter.  “What a discovery!  Worth way more than what the boys in R&D figure out on any given day-“

Rhys uncrosses his arms, tries to push him away, practically onto his side in the ensuing struggle, twisting his face to the side to press into the cushion and muffle the mad laughter threatening to spill forth. Jack follows fluidly, straddling Rhys’ curled legs to continue.  Rhys weakly tries to slap his hand away but the sensation of the tickling leaves his limbs heavy with laughter.

“What, you don’t like that cupcake?  But you’re smiling!  I oughta do this when I’m in you, huh, you really buck around.  It’s like a damn rodeo.”

Rhys can’t keep from laughing openly now, breathless and so loud that he even snorts a few times.  Jack’s thighs are strong, pinning him in his place as he flails desperately in vain. “St-stop it!—“ He manages to wheeze, shoving at hand at Jack’s chest.

Before he knows it, something’s been popped between his lips deftly, mid-laugh, at the same moment Jack’s fingers relinquish the attack on his side.  Rhys bites down in surprise; the piece of nori Jack had been holding. His breathing is still evening out with one last surprised laugh, looking up at where Jack smirks triumphantly.

Rhys chews, unable to resist a smile when Jack slaps him fondly on the hip as they both sit back up.  Jack returns to his position at the arm of the couch and Rhys props himself on his elbow on the other side, kicking his feet into Jack’s lap and grabbing his plate.

They eat companionably for a moment before he says it, lighter than before but still serious.  “I’m not a goldfish, y’know.  You can’t just distract me and expect me to forget.”  His voice goes quieter as he pours some soy sauce into the tiny lacquered dish on his plate.  “I can’t stay here forever, Jack.  I need to go back to Hyperion.”

He doesn’t look up, just focuses on his food and waits.  Jack leans over his feet to grab a few more maki rolls for his plate.  His chest presses unapologetically against Rhys’ toes in the process, something comfortable in the casualness they share space with now.

“I know,”  he says simply.  He takes a bite, but he’s abandoned his fork.

Rhys’ chopsticks still.  “You do?”  His looks to Jack’s face, which is turned ahead, eyes half-lidded as he studies the glow of the tiled floor.  He shrugs, chewing with his mouth half-open, so that Rhys hears the smack of each bite.

“Got used to you handling so much of the day-to-day,”  he admits, then pointing at Rhys.  “Wait, don’t get the idea I _can't_ , because that’s bullshit.  I’ve been doing it for years, haven’t I?”  He waves his hand.  “It’s just…  Easier, having you around.”

Rhys’ mouth stretches slowly into a smile, amused by the way Jack huffs in annoyance and goes back to his food.  He feels a quavering relief.  He just wants to feel normal, as normal as he can feel in a company like this, with a man like  _Jack._

When he has another fit later that night, after they’ve fooled around a bit and curled up on the couch to watch TV, Jack steadies him again.  His world shakes apart in the same way it has each time, and he throws up a lot of the sushi.  His head hurts and his body hurts and his sense of self is temporarily tossed about, wrung out like a dishtowel.

After, when Jack’s put him in the bed and taken off his arm, holding him close from behind, he’s afraid that it will mean Jack will renege.  That’s all he can think, through the throb of his head, that this sickness is going to topple everything he built for himself at Hyperion.

But in the morning, Jack wakes him up by unceremoniously dumping a change of clothes on his stomach.  “C’mon kiddo, up and at ‘em. have a lot of budgets and proposals to approve today.  By which I mean _you_  do.”

Rhys never thought he’d feel so excited at the prospect of paperwork.

 

* * *

 

Getting back into the swing of things should be harder than it is.  Especially with the laundry-list of admin work that Jack has let pile-up in his absence (and jesus, the _state_  of Jack’s office itself is positively horrifying, even compared to how Rhys has seen it before, littered in wrappers and empty cups, coffee stains and crumpled reports.)

Every time he has an incident, of course, Jack sends him home.  He’s back to his own apartment now, not because there’s any uncertainty left in the nature of his relationship with Jack, but because what he wants more than anything at the moment is normalcy.  Familiarity.  Jack shows up at their door with more and more frequency, though, to spend the night, to laugh at soap operas with Vaughn.  And Rhys crashes at Jack’s too, and stares at the wide wall of stars that is his window, and wonders when the thing in his head will get better.  Whether it can, or— god forbid— if it will get  _worse._

“I nearly collapsed at that board meeting yesterday,” he says tiredly to Lisa a few months after his return to work, as she’s going through the motions of inspecting and cleaning his arm and neural port.  Jack usually tags along to these inspections, but he’s currently snoring on his desk after several all-nighters, and Rhys wasn’t about to wake him for something so routine.  “I was presenting some figures on the Pandoran initiatives we’re developing, and it just hit me.”

Lisa doesn’t actually shrug, knuckle-deep in the wiring of Rhys’ forearm, but Rhys has learned to see the twitch of her eyebrows as the facial equivalent.  “It’s bound to happen sometimes,”  she says around the screws that poke from her lips in the manner of a toothpick.  “Does it bother you when it happens in front of people?”

Rhys frowns, watching her work.  “Yeah.  I feel…”  He thinks of that particular moment, in the slick meeting room, standing at the head of the huge table lined by high-backed chairs.  It had hit him mid sentence, just as he had been manipulating a hologram of the solar-powered desalinization still he’s hoping to test in a few of Pandora’s more arid settlements.  He was widening the fingers he’d pinched over the glowing blue schematic to enhance the image, rattling off statistics on the cheap cost of production, the potential for gaining local cooperation with mining, and suddenly his eyes had caught on one of the other board-members’ hands where it rested on the long glass table.

There was a bandage wrapped around it, careful and tidy, around the palm and the base of her thumb.  Bright white in contrast to the woman’s red nails, and just one small stain of blood blooming where whatever wound she had must have just re-opened, and—

Pain, in his head, and the schism between his own casual interest and the now-familiar flash of events, the cave and the stalker and Cyrus dead on the floor and his salivary glands welling up with that awful sick Pavlovian response.

“It makes me feel sick,”  is all he can tell Lisa now, lamely. “And I don’t want the execs to see me like that.”

Lisa spits one of the screws into her palm. “As weak, you mean.”

“Yeah,” he says, “something like that.”

She polishes the screws with a nearby rag before fixing them to the yellow panel in Rhys’ arm.  After surveying the fit with grudging satisfaction she turns her face up to Rhys.  “Well. Did they?”

His lips twitch at the corners.  “Actually… When I went to kind of, y’know, grab the table to keep myself up?  I elbowed the guy sitting next to me right in his face.”  Lisa’s eyebrows shoot up in amusement.  “And I guess he’d been messing around on a datapad, and Cheryl says that everyone is now under the impression I’d been filled with rage that he wasn’t listening, and hit him on purpose.  To teach him a lesson.”  The guy’s nose _had_  started bleeding, which Rhys admittedly feels bad about. “Jack dismissed the meeting before I got any worse.”

Lisa’s thin lips twitch into a smirk as she reattaches the joint of Rhys’s arm, eyes meeting his gaze knowingly.  “Sounds like you dodged a bullet then.”

He sighs.  “Yeah.  This time.”  With his arm all back in one piece begins to pull on his shirt.  

“I know it’s dangerous to show weakness in this place, Rhys, but everyone knows that Jack will beat them bloody with their own arm if they don’t listen to you, and you treat them a lot better than Jack anyways.”  She pushes her stool back, standing. “Plus, word’s gotten around somewhat about how you handled Cyrus.  I doubt anyone is eager to cross you.”

Rhys’ jaw tightens perceptively at the name, but he focuses on buttoning up his over-shirt.  “You’ll be fine,”  Lisa adds firmly, giving him a meaningful look before turning to her tools.

When Rhys has his shirt back on he sits a moment longer on the workbench, palms flat on his thighs.  Just thinking, not satisfied with the state of things, with not knowing why he can’t see a spot of blood without losing it.  Lisa’s back is to him as she straightens things up.

“I just don’t understand,” he says finally, sliding to the ground, “why I almost feel like I’m _still connected_  to the stalker, sometimes.”  He shakes his head.  “I mean, we’re not linked anymore, and the thing is _dead_.”

There’s a beat, and Lisa’s wiry frame stills.  She looks over her shoulder at Rhys, a curious look on her face.

“What?”  He asks, confused by the length of her stare.  “Did we forget to check something, or—“

“Rhys,” she says, “the stalker’s not _dead_.”  The wrinkles at the corners of her mouth deepen, “Didn’t Jack tell you?”

 


	24. Chapter 24

The cave on Pandora is emptier than Rhys had expected. It’s barren. Quiet. The wreckage has been cleared out pretty much completely— no rubble, no smashed computer terminals or intestine-like coils of wire and tube. All that’s left to suggest what was once held at this camp is the frame of the stalker’s tank wall, now empty of its shatterproof glass. Within this meaningless barrier are the withered plants, the stalker’s artificial ecosystem. Shallow pits, formerly pools of water, contain just a skim of stagnating mud.

Rhys breathes in, and out.

It had been _hard_ convincing Jack to let him come back here. Of course, he had the bargaining chip of Jack concealing the stalker’s survival— they had only so recently seemed to figure things out about their relationship, at least for the time being, and here was a fresh reason they might fracture. But he had played it cool as he confronted Jack in his office. All these things they’d been through, and the ways Jack had changed, or at least seemed to be trying. This lie of omission upset him, sure, but he had to remember- Jack was still _Jack._ It would accomplish nothing to yell at him for an action he probably saw no issue with.

Jack had been sitting at his desk when Rhys looked down at him and said, quite simply, “Why didn’t you tell me the stalker is still alive?”

Jack had lowered the piece of pizza from his mouth, clearly ready for a fight. Had immediately launched into a defense. “Look babe, we didn’t even know it was alive til recently, and it clawed out the tracking device, and in your condition—“

Rhys just looked him in the eye steadily and said, calm as could be;

“Take me back to the camp.”

He had said,

“I want to see where it happened.”

And so, here they are.

Jack clicks his tongue in annoyance, hands on his hips. He kicks at what remains of the tank. “Piece of shit.” He murmurs. “Couldn’t take one lousy rocket explosion—“

Rhys is aware that being here is making Jack supremely uncomfortable, and also that he is trying to hide that discomfort. His nerves are up, babbling to fill the silence. “And yet those plebs failed to clear out the rest of it. Fucking typical. I said scrub this place top-to-bottom…”

There are great depressions in the ground, where the tanks of eridium had been. Scuffs and dents in dirt and rock alike, left by the wear-and-tear of the lab. He looks to where the make-shift “offices” had been, Peterson’s little desk and cubicle. All gone now. There’s a tight kind of bubble stuck somewhere between his chest and nose, and he furrows his brow, like trying to work it up and out. He steps over the barrier of the tank wall, crunches through dried ferns and bracken.

“I mean, so it’s not like anyone’s gonna repurpose this mess, extract any mind-blowing secrets or anything, but it’s the fucking principal of the thing…” Jack continues, following Rhys distractedly, still looking in disgust around him.

A few more moments of Jack complaining, Rhys walking purposefully. “Hey kitten tits,” Jack says nervously, quickening his pace to catch up to Rhys. “You doing ok? What’s going on?”

Rhys pauses momentarily as the vision in his ECHO eye cuts out then in, pretending to survey a rock half-melted by the stalker’s corrosive spit. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just… processing.”

Jack takes him by the elbow uncertainly, pulling him around to gaze into his eyes, clearly skeptical. “Uh-huh. So you’re telling me that after weeks of losing it any time you saw a spot of blood, you come back to the cave where you shot someone multiple times, and you’re totally fine?”

Processing is a mild way of putting it— it’s like a secondary overlay is starting to flick over his vision, like seeing the heat of things, tenuous shapes beneath and over and through the concrete objects before him. He takes a deep breath, gives Jack a reassuring smile. It’s not exactly peace he’s feeling, not exactly the relief of the pressure he’s had in his brain since the day he connected to the Stalker. More like a shift of that pressure. To somewhere inside him that is less worn down, that can take it for the time-being.

“I just need to sit down. For a moment.” He takes the few steps he needs to get to a nearby rock, large and flat and crusted with lichen, and sinks slowly to sit, exhaling evenly. Jack, predictably, doesn’t seem to believe him, and follows with hands hovering ever-ready to catch him if he falls. He sits beside Rhys on the rock’s lip, hand going unthinkingly to his back.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jack repeats. “Look, I know you didn’t want them with us but I still have that back-up team pretty close behind, good medics and—“

“I can’t explain why,” Rhys interjects carefully, “but, yeah. I’m fine, I think.”

It does feel like something is prodding from within, tugging, pulling, but it’s not like it was on Helios, not so unbearable. Jack’s hand on his back is firm, and he can feel the sheen of cooling sweat on it through the cotton of his undershirt, his button-up discarded back in the car along with several of Jack’s own typical layers.

Jack is waiting for him to continue. He looks around the cave, and the unbidden heat-signatures wax and wane, except— he’s realizing it’s not from the present. Because there are red shapes of people-shaped heat pacing where there are no people now, there are spaces in the distance where heat bounces and reflects as if the cubicles were still there, the computers, the pumps. He’s seeing double in a way that makes no sense, but still his breathing is even and calm.

His HUD flicks in and out of info mode, highlighting various spots around the cave in rapid succession, rust-colored dirt in the distance where blood had been spilled, traces of stalker venom.

He rotates his head slowly to the left. Ahead, shimmering ghost-like, is Peterson’s corpse as it was (god knows what Jack had done with it, after. He doesn’t like to think about the creatively vicious ways Jack can show his anger.) Rhys can remember only small details of what Peterson really looked like then, as frantic as he’d been when he’d seen it. Only the way the stalker’s spit had left the little man looking like a plastic toy left half-in flame, melted and twisted.

Now all he sees is a flicker between the heat-vision, bright white at the edges where the acid had still sizzled, and chunks of blue data-map noting only that _here was an object_ , here was _something_. Peterson had been in the tank. His arm stretched out like a renaissance painting, towards the gauntlet where it lay only feet away, like looking for the spark of fire from the gods.

There’s something about it all he still can’t reconcile. About that day.

“Jack,” he says finally, when the heat ghosts are waning a bit and he can think, “why did Peterson help Cyrus?” Jack’s hand twitches involuntarily on his leg at the name. “What was he after? Money, a better job?”

Jack’s stare has been unwavering this whole time. He exhales through his nose and looks in the distance. Towards where the various tech, control panels and computer arrays had been. “No,” he grimaces. “You’d think that’s it right? I mean, no shortage of people in Hyperion willing to sell their soul for a bit of that and even more willing to sell out the company itself. I mean, that’s what we assumed at first, couldn’t find much evidence of that tool-bag actually promising him anything. Not until we managed to recover some of the encrypted files on the busted computers.”

“And what’d they say?” Rhys asks. “They weren’t evidence of money transfers, or shady contracts or something?” He can’t puzzle it out. Peterson had been… Odd, certainly. He’d unnerved Rhys. But he also hadn’t seemed particularly malicious, or resentful of Hyperion, even when they’d stuck him down here on a project that essentially cut him off from all outside contact.

Jack snorts. “No. They were his own personal recordings. Sad little diary or something.” Jack’s mouth is a hard line. “Boring as shit to listen to, because there was stuff about the project in there as well, y’know, real dry statistics and numbers and shit.” His leg bumps Rhys’. “It was the god damn _stalker._ ” He says, somewhat incredulously. “I can’t believe it but the little fucker was doing it all _for the stalker._ ”

Rhys looks at Jack, uncomprehending. “For..?”

Jack throws up his hands “His precious little pet, his ‘Alice’ or what the fuck ever. He was afraid we’d hurt it. Use it for something bad.”

Rhys raises his eyebrow at Jack, who relents.

“Okay, whatever, so that wasn’t a completely unfounded concern but…” He looks sideways at Rhys. “Cyrus was telling him it was a certainty. And that without me, he’d make sure it didn’t happen. And he also just so happened to mention you. That you had exactly the kind of cybernetics that Peterson had been looking into, for integration with the Stalker. I don’t think he knew exactly what would happen, but the way he talked, about some ‘bond,’ he had some idea it’d affect you both.”

Rhys frowns, just as confused as before, rubs his temples. “What, so, he thought me connecting to the stalker would… Make it safe somehow?”

Jack shrugs. “An insurance plan if Cyrus failed him I guess. Y’know. If you had some connection with it I guess the sick little bastard thought it’d give him leverage, or, fuck, I don’t know. At least make the thing more stable. Less expendable. Like I saw it as expendable after all that fucking money I sunk into it _anyways_ …”

“Diamond horse.” Rhys reminds him with a small smile. He leans against Jack and closes his eyes. The images flicker still, on the black screen of his eyelids. He feels like he’s waiting for something, or looking for something, or…

“ _Pony._ ” Jack corrects him.

They sit there maybe fifteen minutes, although Rhys isn’t feeling the concept of time at the moment, too wrapped up in the strangely peaceful overstimulation of his brain. He can practically feel Jack buzzing out of his skin next to him, struggling not to ask what’s going on, what’s next, to crack a joke or look for an outlet for his pent up frustration. It’s cool in here compared to outside, the heat of Pandora’s long long days, but it’s still and dead without whatever ventilation system had been set-up before. He smells the salt of Jack’s sweat mingled with aftershave, feels the fabric of his cotton shirt against his cheek. He lets the images flicker and he waits.

And then, suddenly, it stops. No more images crawling over the backs of his eyelids. He opens his eyes and the heat blobs are gone, the HUD overlays are gone. All but for the blue glow, in the distance, of where the gauntlet was. It pulses dimply and he raises his head from Jack’s shoulder.

“Rhys?” He asks nervously, “cupcake?”

Rhys stands, steadily, and he walks towards this not-gauntlet. The bubble in his chest seems to press forth, like helium in a balloon pulling it steadily up, and he steps through crackling underbrush until he gets to the spot, near where the inner bars of the cage had been. Where he had reached through and grabbed the gauntlet in a frenzy of desperation.

Jack crunches behind him heavily, striding to catch up. “ _Rhys._ ”

Rhys stoops, eyes wide as he stares at the outline. His neural port feels hot, humming. He reaches out slowly to touch with his hand, his flesh-and-blood hand, even though he knows it’s not there anymore, not really, and _pop_. It’s gone. And he feels a tingle spread up his arms and veins and through the dense cables of his implants and straight to that door at the back of his mind where the big shape hulks and waits.

And the door cracks.

Jack is to him by the time he straightens back up, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him around to search his eye. “For fucks sake are you—“

“Jack,” Rhys says, “I know how to get to the stalker.”

Jack freezes. “You what?”

His hands overlap Jack’s, where they’ve fisted in his undershirt. “Listen, can we take another day off? And the car. We’ll need the car.”

 

* * *

 

They need the car.

It takes some explaining, of course, to convince Jack the trip is necessary. That Rhys can feel something tugging him forward now, not a mere suggestion from the beast in his head but a demand. It’s compulsion more than logic, and instinct is a thing that resonates with Jack, instinct is a thing Jack has built an empire on. Typically his own of course, but— there’s that unspoken trust between them, delicate as it is.

So they drive, following the compass in his head, a vague sense of what is the right trail, like deja-vu when going the correct way, like a migraine whenever they turn off.

They’ve taken a practical, less-flashy vehicle, thank god. Something sturdy and better-made than anything company-issue, but with a deceivingly beat-up weatherworn exterior. Just another bandit rig as far as anyone else could tell. Counter-intuitive to this attempt to blend-in, Jack had wanted to bring a fleet of soldiers and combat engineers until Rhys pointed out that several dozen Hyperion employees trampling the dust wasn’t exactly “low profile.”

They settled on back-up communications systems to radio for help at the drop of the hat, plenty of emergency supplies loaded in the back, and Jack’s command to have back-up orbiting and ready to deploy at “the drop of a ‘get the fuck down here.’”

“I’ve seen that rock before,” Rhys mumbles vaguely on day two as they whiz past an unremarkable outcropping, Pandora’s cut-and-paste desert terrain. His temple is resting against his knuckles, elbow propped against the passenger-side door. Jack refuses to let him drive, which at first he assumed to be a dominance thing. But then again, he does have that whole unspecified/sometimes-hallucinatory neurological problem going on, so… Fair enough.

Jack cuts him a look out of the corner of his eye, between the gap left by his obnoxious aviators. It goes without saying that what Rhys means is the giant creature that set up camp in my skull saw those rocks, and this is the first time I’m seeing those rocks, and I feel the need to comment on it because it’s weirding me out.

“Wait,” Rhys says, sitting up slowly from his slouched position, head moving side-to-side as he takes in the rapidly passing background. “Waitwaitwait. I’ve seen that rock! I’ve seen that rock, Jack!”

Jack’s mouth twists, “Yeah I heard you the first time cupcake, what do you want, a medal? Now can we stop for lunch soon, I’m—“

“Pull over!” Rhys yells emphatically, grabbing Jack by his slick bicep (more room for better shielding systems had meant, unfortunately, less room for the incredible AC Jack has in most of his personal vehicles.)

Startled, Jack complies, pulling the wheel hard and hitting the brake, the car skidding in tight circles as it struggles to grip the dirt and sand, Rhys pressed into Jack despite the valiant efforts of his seat-belt. He’s still pointing in the direction of the large formation in the distance, smudge of brown against the heat-clouded sky.

As the car finishes its skid Jack collapses back into the seat with a sucked breath, hands raising to the air in entreaty. “Jesus _Christ_ , Rhys, that rock better be a fucking burger joint because—“

But Rhys' eyes are clouded over by flashes of vision, feedback loops like when he’d re-visited the cave. “You don’t understand,” he says excitedly, unclipping his belt, kicking aside the pile of energy drink cans on the floor, the door opening at his touch with a judder. “I haven’t just _seen_ that rock, I’m _seeing_ that rock.”

Jack looks at him with fond but weary exasperation, the same look given to a senile relative who’s telling you the same old war-story for the thousandth time. “Uh-huh, well I’m seeing it too, and it looks like every other piece of rubble on this uninspired marble.”

But he gets out when Rhys does, follows him around the car indulgently. The heat is baking at this point of the day, worse without even the minimal cooling system provided by their vehicle. Jack pulls off the ridiculous tropical-patterned shirt he’s been wearing with a curse (he’s amused himself so far by pretending this whole thing is some kind of vacation, even brought a cock-tail set) throwing it on the ground spitefully. Underneath, his white Hyperion tank-top is stained with sweat.

Rhys doesn’t notice. He’s staring at the rocks still, squinting. “It’s… here.” He says finally, mouth spreading in a grin. “I’m looking at this rock, yeah, but so is it, so is it, _right now_ Jack.” Other than the weird doubling of sight his head is clearer than it’s been in weeks, his skin is prickling with goose-bumps. He sucks in a breath and shoves his sweat-thickened hair back with a rough push of fingers as he searches the skyline.

“It’s _what?_ ” asks Jack, already reaching for the gun at his hip.

Rhys pivots calmly, naturally, letting the secondary sight-line in his head reverse until he’s staring directly opposite, and he sees— beside the opening of a canyon, maybe a few miles away. An overhanging lip of rock, and beneath it a black shape standing slowly, stretching as if shaking off a long sleep. Jack turns with apprehension to follow his gaze.

“Well, fuck _me_ with a cattle-prod.”

The stalker moves towards them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I'm still here. I'm sorry for the 3 month gap in updates; it's been really touching how many people have commented or messaged me (politely) telling me I should continue. I've had a lot of life stuff going on, several pretty rough things, and it's made it harder to write.
> 
> Anyways, here I am! I have not abandoned this fic. There is exactly one chapter left, and then it'll be done, over a year later. 
> 
> As usual thanks for reading <3\. Your support always makes my day.


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